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POEMS 


BY 



WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 

• ii 


COLLECTED AND A. li li A N O E I) 



NEW YORK: 

D. APPLETON & CO., 549 & 551 BROADWAY. 
London : 16 Little Beitain. 

1878. 




Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1854, by 
W. C. BRYANT, in the Clerk’s Office of” the District 
Court of the United States for the Southern District of New 
York. 


Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1871, by 
W. C. BRYANT, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, 
at Washington. 


Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1878, by 
W. C. BRYANT, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, 
at Washington. 


TO THE READER. 




[PREFIXED TO THE EDITION OF 1840.J 


Perhaps it would have been well if the author 
had followed his original intention, which was to 
leave out of this edition, as unworthy of repubiica- 
tion, several of the poems which made a part of his 
previous collections. He asks leave to plead the 
judgment of a literary friend, whose opinion in such 
matters he highly values, as his apology for having 
retained them. With the exception of the first and 
longest poem in the collection, “ The Ages,” they are 
all arranged according to the order of time in which 
they were written, as far as it can be ascertained. 

New York, 1846. 




ADVERTISEMENT. 


The present edition has been carefully revised by 
the author, and some faults of diction and versifica- 
tion corrected. A few poems have been added from 
the Red-Line Edition of the author’s poems, to make 
the collection complete. 


New York , Februaxy 1874 . 




CONTENTS. 


Fozms. 

The Ages, 

Thanatopsis, 

The Yellow Violet, 

Inscription for the Entrance to a Wood, 

Song, 

To a Waterfowl, 

Green River, 

A Winter Piece, 

The West Wind, 

The Burial-place. — A Fragment, 

“Blessed are they that Mourn,” 

“No man knoweth his Sepulchre,” 

A Walk at Sunset, 

Hymn to Death, 

The Massacre at Scio, 

The Indian Girl’s Lament, 

Ode for an Agricultural Celebration, .... 

Kizpah, 

The Old Man's Funeral, 

The Rivulet, 

March, 

Consumption,.. 

An Indian Story, 


p*k*. 

.. 18 .» 
.. 24 - 
.. 26 
. . 27 - 
.. 29 
.. 29 - 
. 81 
.. 33 
.. 86 
.. 37 
.. 39 — 
.. 40 
.. 41 
. 43 
,. 48 
.. 48 
.. 50 
.. 51 
.. 53 


58 

59 
59 


8 


CONTEN US, 


Poems. Pa " 0 

Summer Wind, 651 

An Indian at the Burial-place of his Fathers, . 64 

Song, 66 

Hymn of the Waldenses, 68 

Monument Mountain, 69 

After a Tempest, 78 

Autumn Woods, 75 

Mutation, 77 

November, 77 

Song of the Greek Amazon, 78 

To a Cloud, 79 

The Murdered Traveller, 80 

Ilymn to the North Star, 82 

The Lapse of Time, 83 

Song of the Stars, 85 

A Forest Hymn, S7 

“Oh Fairest of the Rural Maids,” 90 

“I broke the spell that held me long,” 91 

June, 92 

A Song of Pitcairn’s Island, 94 

The Firmament, 95 

“ I cannot forget with what fervid devotion,” 97 

To a Musquito, 98 

Lines on Revisiting the Country, 101 

The Death of the Flowers, 102 

Romero, 104 

A Meditation on lthode-Island Coal, * 106 

The New Moon, 109 

October, 110 

The Damsel of Peru, Ill 

The African Chief, 113 

Spring in Town, 115 

The Gladness of Nature, 117 

The Disinterred Warrior, 118 

Midsummer, 120 

The Greek Partisan, , 120 


CONTENTS. 


9 


Poems. Pago 

The Two Graves, 123 

The Conjunction of Jupiter and Venus, 124 

A Summer Ramble, 127 

A Scene on the Banks of the Hudson, 129 

The Hurricano, 130 

William Tell, 132 

The Hunter’s Serenade, 182 

The Greek Boy, 134 

The Past, 135 

“Upon the Mountain’s Distant Head,”. 133 

The Evening Wind, 188 

“When the Firmament Quivers with Daylight’s Young 

Beam,” 140 

“Innocent Child and Snow-white Flower,” 141 

To the River Arve, 142 

To Cole, the Painter, departing for Europe, 143 

To the Fringed Gentian, 144 

The Twenty-second of December, 145 

Hymn of the City, 145 

The Prairies, 147 

Song of Marion’s Men, 150 

The Arctic Lover, 152 

The Journey of Life, 154 


Translations. -~ 

Version of a Fragment of Simonides, 155 

From the Spanish of Villegas, 156 

Mary Magdalen. (From the Spanish of Bartolomd Leon- 
ardo de Argensola), 157 

The Life of the Blessed. (From the Spanish of Luis 

Ponce de Leon}, 158 

Fatima and Raduan. (From the Spanish), 150 

Love and Folly. (From La Fontaine), 161 

The Siesta. (From the Spanish), 163 

The Alcayde of Molina. (From the Spanish), 164 

The Death of Aliatar. (From the Spanish), 16C 


10 


CONTENTS. 


Translations. Page. 

Love in the Age of Chivalry. (From Peyre Tidal, the 

Troubadour), 168 

The Love of God. (From the Provencal of Bernard 

Bascas), 169 

From the Spanish of Pedro de Castro y Aftaya, 170 

Sonnet (From the Portuguese of Semedo), 171 

Song. (From the Spanish of Iglesias), 172 

The Count of Greiers. (From the German of Uhland),. 178 

The Serenade. (From the Spanish), 175 

A Northern Legend. (From the German of Uhland), . . 177 
The Paradise of Tears. (From the German of N. Mul- 
ler), 17S 

The Lady of Castle Windeck. (From the German of 
Chamisso), 179 

Later Poems. 

To the Apennines, 182 

Earth 184 

The Knight’s Epitaph, 187 

The Hunter of the Prairies, 188 

Seventy-six, 190 

The Living Lost, 192 

Catterskill Falls, 193 

The Strange Lady, 197 

Life, 199 

“Earth’s children cleave to earth,” 201 

The Hunter's Vision, : 202 

The Green Mountain Boys, 204 

A Presentiment, 205 

The Child’s Funeral, 206 

The Battle-field, 208 

The Future Life, 209 

The Death of Schiller, 211 

The Fountain, 212 

The Winds, 216 

The Old Man's Counsel, 218 


CONTENTS. 


11 


Later Poems. p n ge 

In Memory of Wi liam Leggett, 221 

An Evening Eevery, 222 

The Painted Cup, 224 

A Dream, 225 

The Antiquity of Freedom, 227 

The Maiden’s Sorrow, 229 

The Eeturn of Youth, 230 

A Hymn of the Sea, 231 

Noon. (From an unfinished Poem), 234 

The Crowded Street 236 

The "White-footed Deer, 237 

The "Waning Moon, 240 

The Stream of Life, 242 

The Unknown Way, 242 

“ Oh Mother of a Mighty Eace,” 244 

The Land of Dreams, 246 

The Burial of Love, 247 

The May-sun sheds an Amber Light, . 249 

The Voice of Autumn, 250 

The Conqueror’s Grave, 252 

The Planting of the Apple-Tree, 254 

The Snow-Shower, 257 

A Eain-Dream, 259 

Eobert of Lincoln 261 

The Twenty-seventh of March, 263 

An Invitation to the Country, 265 

gong for New-Year’s Eve, 267 

The Wind and Stream, 263 

The Lost Bird. — From the Spanish of Carolina Coro- 
nado, 269 

The Night-Journey of a Eiver, 270 

The Life that Is, 273 

Song. — “ These Prairies Glow with Flowers,” 275 

A Sick-Bed, 276 

The Song of the Sower, 27S 

The New and the Old 284 


12 


CONTENTS. 


Later Poems. Page 

The Cloud on the Way, 285 

The Tides, 287 

Italy, 289 

A Day-Dream, 291 

The Euins of Italica.— From the Spanish of Rioja, 294 

"W aiting by the Gate, 297 

Not Yet, 299 

Our Country’s Call, 300 

The Constellations, 802 

The Third of November, 1S61, 304 

The Mother’s Hymn, 306 

Sella, 307 

The Fifth Book of Homer’s Odyssey. — Translated,.. . . 321 

| The Little People of the Snow, 337 

The Poet, 347 

The Path, 349 

' The Return of the Birds, 351 

“ He hath put all things under His feet,” 353 

My Autumn Walk, 354 

Dante, 357 

The Death of Lincoln, 358 

The Death of Slavery, 358 

*' Receive thy Sight,” 361 

1 A Brighter Day, 362 

Among the Trees 364 

M ay E vening 868 

—.^October, 1866, 370 

The Order of Nature, 372 

Tree-Burial 373 

A Legend of the Delawares, 375 

A Lifetime, 3S0 

The Two Travellers, 3S5 

Christmas in 1875, 3S8 

The Flood of Years, 390 

Our Fellow- Worshippers, 394 

Notes, 897 


POEMS. 


THE AGES. 

L 

W hen to the common rest that crowns our days, 
Called in the noon of life, the good man goes, 

Or full of years, and ripe in wisdom, lays 
His silver temples in their last repose ; 

When, o’er the buds of youth, the death-wind blow*? 
And blights the fairest ; when our bitter tears 
Stream, as the eyes of those that love us close, 

We think on what they were, with many fears 
Lest goodness die with them, and leave the coming 
years. 

n. 

And therefore, to our hearts, the days gone by, 

When lived the honoured sage whose death we wept, 
And the soft virtues beamed from many an eye, 

And beat in many a heart that long has slept, — 

Like spots of earth where angel-feet have stepped, 
Are holy ; and high-dreaming bards have told 
Of times when worth was crowned, and faith was kept 
Ere friendship grew a snare, or love waxed cold — 
Those pure and happy times — the golden days of old. 
2 




14 


POEMS. 


IIL 

Peace to the just man’s memory; let it grow 
Greener with years, and blossom through the flight 
Of ages ; let the mimic canvas show 
His calm benevolent features ; let the light 
Stream on his deeds of love, that shunned the sight 
Of all but heaven, and in the book of fame, 

The glorious record of his virtues write, 

And hold it up to men, and bid them claim 
A palm like his, and catch from him the hallowed flame, 

rv. 

But oh, despair not of their fate who rise 
To dwell upon the earth when we withdraw! 

Lo ! the same shaft by which the righteous dies, 
Strikes through the wretch that scoffed at mercy’s law 
And trode his brethren down, and felt no awe 
Of Him who will avenge them. Stainless worth. 
Such as the sternest age of virtue saw, 

Ripens, meanwhile, till time shall call it forth 
From the low modest shade, to light and bless the earth 

v. 

Has Nature, in her calm, majestic march 
Faltered with age at last ? does the bright sun 
Grow dim in heaven ? or, in their far blue arch, 
Sparkle the crowd of stars, when day is done, 

Less brightly ? when the dew-lipped Spring comes on 
Breathes she with airs less soft, or scents the sky 
With flowers less fair than when her reign begun ? 
Does prodigal Autumn, to our age, deny 
The plenty that once swelled beneath liis sober eye! 

VL 

Look on this beautiful world, and read the truth 
In her fair page ; see, every season brings 
New change, to her, of everlasting youth ; 

Still the green soil, with joyous living things. 


THE AGES. 


15 


Swaims, the wide air is full of joyous wings, 

And myriads, still, are happy in the sleep 
Of ocean’s azure gulfs, and where he flings 
The restless surge. Eternal Love doth keep 
In his complacent arms, the earth, the air, the deep. 

vn. 

Will then the merciful One, who stamped our race 
With his own image, and who gave them sway 
O’er earth, and the glad dwellers on her face, 

Now that our swarming nations far away 
Are spread, where’er the moist earth drinks the day 
Forget the ancient care that taught and nursed 
His latest offspring ? will he quench the ray 
Infused by his own forming smile at first, 

And leave a work so fair all blighted and accursed f 

vnL 

Oh, no ! a thousand cheerful omens give 
Hope of yet happier days, whose dawn is nigh. 

He who has tamed the elements, shall not live 
The slave of his own passions ; he whose eye 
Unwinds the eternal dances of the sky, 

And in the abyss of brightness dares to span 
The sun’s broad circle, rising yet more high, 

In God’s magnificent works his will shall scan — 

And love and peace shall m»ko their paradise with 
man. 

IX. 

Bit at the feet of history — through the night 
Of years the steps of virtue she shall trace. 

And show the earlier ages, where her sight 
Can pierce the eternal shadows o’er their face ; — 
When, from the genial cradle of our race, 

Went forth the tribes of men, their pleasant lot 
To choose, where palm-groves cooled their dwelling 
place. 


16 


POEMS. 


Or freshening riv irs ran ; and there forgot 
The truth of heaven, and kneeled to gods that heard 
them rot 

x. 

Then waited not the murderer for the night, 

But smote his brother down in the bright day, 

And he who felt the wrong, and had the might, 

His own avenger, girt himself to slay; 

Beside the path the unburied carcass lay , 

The shepherd, by the fountains of the glen, 

Fled, while the robber swept his flock away, 

And slew his babes. The sick, untended then, 
Languished in the damp shade, and died afar from men 

XL 

But misery brought in love ; in passion’s strife 
Man gave his heart to mercy, pleading long, 

And sought out gentle deeds to gladden life ; 

T'he weak, against the sons of spoil and wrong, 
Banded, and watched their hamlets, and grew strong 
States rose, and, in the shadow of their might 
The timid rested. To the reverent throng, * 

Grave and time- wrinkled men, with locks all white 
Gave laws, and judged their strifes, and taught the 
way of right ; 


XII. 

Till bolder spirits seized the rule, and nailed 
On men the yoke that man should never bear 

And drove them forth to battle. Lo! unveiled 

The scene of those stern ages I What is there r 
A boundless sea of blood, and the wild air 
Moans with the crimson surges that entomb 
Cities and bannered armies; forms that wear 
The kingly circlet rise, amid the gloom, 

O’er the dark wave, and straight are swallowed in it* 
womb. 


THE AGES. 


17 


XIII. 

rhose ages nave no memory, but they left 
A record in the desert— columns strewn 
On the waste sands, and statues fallen and cleft, 
Heaped like a host in battle overthrown ; 

Vast ruins, where the mountain’s ribs of stone 
Were hewn into a city; streets that spread 
In the dark earth, where never breath has blown 
Of hea\ en’s sweet air, nor foot of man dares tread 
The long and perilous ways — the Cities of the Dead 

XIV. 

And tombs of monarchs to the clouds up-piled — 
They perished, but the eternal tombs remain — 
And the black precipice, abrupt and wild, 

Pierced by long toil and hollowed to a fane ; — 

Huge piers and frowning forms of gods sustain 
The everlasting arches, dark and wide, 

Like the night-heaven, when clouds are black with rain 
But idly skill was tasked, and strength was plied, 

All was the work of slaves to swell a despot’s pride. 

XV. 

And Virtue cannot dwell with slaves, nor reign 
jO’er those who cower to take a tyrant’s yoke; 

She left the down-trod nations in disdain, 

And flew to Greece, when Liberty awoke, 

New-born, amid those glorious vales, and broke 
Sceptre and chain with her fair youthful hands : 

As rocks are shivered in the thunder-stroke. 

And lo! in full-grown strength, an empire stands 
Of leagued and rival states, the wonder of the lands 

XVL 

Oh, Greece ! thy flourishing cities were a spoil 
Unto each other; thy hard hand oppressed 
And crushed the helpless ; thou didst make thy soil 
Drunk with the blood of those that loved thee best ; 


16 


POEMS. 


And thou didst drive, from thy unnatural breast 
Thy just and brave to die in distant climes ; 

Earth shuddered at thy deeds, and sighed for rest 
From thine abominations ; after times, 

That yet shall read thy tale, will tremble at thy crimes 

XVII. 

Yet there was that within thee which has saved 
Thy glory, and redeemed thy blotted name ; 

The story of thy better deeds, engraved 
On fame’s unmouldering pillar, puts to shame 
Our chiller virtue ; the high art to tame 
The whirlwind of the passions was thine own ; 

And the pure ray, that from thy bosom came, 

Far over many a land and age has shone, 

And mingles with the light that beams from God’s own 
throne. 

XVIII. 

And Rome — thy sterner, younger sister, she 
Who awed the world with her imperial frown— 

Rome drew the spirit of her race from thee, 

The rival of thy shame and thy renown. 

Yet her degenerate children sold the crown 
Of earth’s wide kingdoms to a line of slaves ; 

Guilt reigned, and wo with guilt, and plagues came 
down, 

Till the north broke its floodgates, and the waves 
Whelmed the degraded race, and weltered o’er theis 
graves. 

XIX. 

Vainly that ray of brightness from above. 

That shone around the Galilean lake, 

The light of hope, the leading star of love, 

Struggled, the darkness of that day to break ; 

Even its own faithless guardians strove to slake. 

In fogs of earth, the pure ethereal flame ; 

And priestly hands, for Jesus’ blessed sake, 


THE AGES. 


19 


Were red with blood, and charity became, 

In that stern war of forms, a mockery and a name, 

xx. 

They triumphed, and less bloody rites were kept 
Within the quiet of the convent cell ; 

The well-fed inmates pattered prayer, and slept, 

And sinned, and liked their easy penance well. 
Where pleasant was the spot for men to dwell, 

Amid its fair broad lands the abbey lay, 

Sheltering dark orgies that were shame to tell, 

And cowled and barefoot beggars swarmed the way, 
All in their convent weeds, of black, and white, and 
gray. 

XXL 

Oh, sweetly the returning muses’ strain 
Swelled over that famed stream, whose gentle tide 
In their bright lap the Etrurian vales detain, 

Sweet, as when winter storms have ceased to chide, 
And all the new-leaved woods, resounding wide. 
Send out wild hymns upon the scented air. 

Lo l to the smiling Arno’s classic side 
The emulous nations of the west repair, 

And kindle their quenched urns, and drink fresh spirit 
there. 


XXIL 

Still, Heaven deferred the hour ordained to rend 
From saintly rottenness the sacred stole ; 

And cowl and worshipped shrine could still defend 
The wretch with felon stains upon his soul ; 

And crimes were set to sale, and hard his dole 
Who could not bribe a passage to the skies ; 

And vice, beneath the mitre’s kind control, 

Sinned gaily on, and grew to giant size, 

Shielded by priestly power, and watched by priestly 

eyea. 


20 


POEMS. 


YYTn. 

At last the earthquake came — the shock, that hurled 
To dust, in many fragments dashed and strown, 

The throne, whose roots were in another world, 

And whose far-stretching shadow awed our own. 
From many a proud monastic pile, o’erthrown, 
Fear-struck, the hooded inmates rushed and fled ; 

The web, that for a thousand years had grown 
O'er prostrate Europe, in that day of dread 
Crumbled and fell, as fire dissolves the flaxen thread 

XXIV. 

The spirit of that day is still awake, 

And spreads himself, and shall not sleep again ; 

But through the idle mesh of power shall break 
Like billows o’er the Asian monarch’s chain ; 

Till men are filled with him, and feel how vain, 
Instead of the pure heart and innocent hands, 

Are all the proud and pompous modes to gain 
The smile of Heaven ; — till a new age expands 
Its white and holy wings above the peaceful lands. 

XXV. 

For look again on the past years ; — behold, 

How like the nightmare’s dreams have flown away 
Horrible forms of worship, that, of old, 

Held, o’er the shuddering realms, unquestioned sway 
See crimes, that feared not once the eye of day, 
Rooted from men, without a name or place : 

See nations blotted out from earth, to pay 
The forfeit of deep guilt ; — with glad embrace 
The fair disburdened lands welcome a nobler i ace. 

XXVI. 

Thus error’s monstrous shapes from earth are driven} 
They fado, they fly — but truth survives their flight ; 
Earth has no shades to quench that beam of heaven ; 
Each ray that shone, in early time, to light 


THE AGES. 


2J 


rile faltering footstep in the path of right, 

Each gleam of clearer brightness shed to aid 
In man’s maturer day his bolder sight, 

All blended, like the rainbow’s radiant braid, 

Pour yet, and still shall pour, the blaze that cannot fade 

XXVEL 

Late, from this western shore, that morning chased 
The deep and ancient night, which threw its shroud 
O’er the green land of groves, the beautiful waste, 
Nurse of full streams, and lifter-up of proud 
Sky-mingling mountains that o’erlook the cloud. 

Ere while, where yon gay spires their brightness rear, 
Trees waved, and the brown hunter’s shouts were 
loud 

Amid the forest ; and the bounding deer 
Fled at the glancing plume, and the gaunt wolf yelled 
near. 

xxvin. 

And where his willing waves yon bright blue bay 
Sends up, to kiss his decorated brim, 

And cradles, in his soft embrace, the gay 
Young group of grassy islands born of him, 

And crowding nigh, or in the distance dim, 

Lifts the white throng of sails, that bear or bring 
The commerce of the world ; — with tawny limb, 

And belt and beads in sunlight glistening, 

The savage urged his skiff like wild bird on the wing 

XXIX. 

Then all this youthful paradise around, 

And all the broad and boundless mainland, lay 
Cooled by the interminable wood, that frowned 
O’er mount and vale, where never summer ray 
Glanced, till the strong tornado broke his way 
Through the gray giants of the sylvan wild ; 

Yet many a sheltered glade, with blossoms gay 


22 


POEMS. 


Beneath the showery sky and sunshine mild, 

Within the shaggy arms of that dark forest smiled. 

XXX. 

There stood the Indian hamlet, there the lake 
Spread its blue sheet that flashed w’th many an 
oar, 

Where the brown otter plunged him from the brako, 
And the deer drank : as the light gale flew o’er, 

The twinkling maize-field rustled on the shore; 

And while that spot, so wild, and lone, and fair, 

A look of glad and guiltless beauty wore, 

And peace was on the earth and in the air, 

The warrior lit the pile, and bound his captive there 

YYTT. 

Not unavenged — the foeman, from the wood, 

Beheld the deed, and when the midnight shade 
Was stillest, gorged his battle-axe with blood ; 

All died — the wailing babe — the shrieking maid — 
And in the flood of fire that scathed the glade, 

The roofs went down ; but deep the silence grew, 
When on the dewy woods the day-beam played ; 

No more the cabin smokes rose wreathed and blue, 
And ever, by their lake, lay moored the bark canoe, 

xxxn. 

Look now abroad — another race has filled 
These populous borders — wide the wood recedes, 

And towns shoot up, and fertile realms are tilled : 

The land is full of harvests and green meads ; 

Streams numberless, that many a fountain feeds, 
Shine, disembowered, and give to sun and breeze 
Their virgin waters ; the full region leads 
New colonies forth, that toward the western seas 
Spread, like a rapid flame among the autumnal treea 


THE AGES. 


28 


XXXII L 

Here the free spirit of mankind, at length, 
Throws its last fetters off ; and who shall place 
A limit to the giant s unchained strength, 

Or curb his swiftness in the forward race i 
On, like the comet’s way through infinite space, 
Stretches the long untravelled path of light, 

Into the depths of ages ; we may trace. 

Afar, the brightening glory of its flight, 

Till the receding rays are lost to human sight. 


xxxiv. 

Europe is given a prey to sterner fates, 

And writhes in shackles ; strong the arms that chain 
To earth her struggling multitude of states ; 

She too is strong, and might not chafe in vain 
Against them, but might cast to earth the train 
That trample her, and break their iron net.. 

Yes, she shall look on brighter days and gain 
The meed of worthier deeds ; the moment set 
To rescue and raise up, draws near — but is not yet. 


xxxv. 

But thou, my country, thou shalt never fall, 

Save with thy children — thy maternal care, 

Thy lavish love, thy blessings showered on all — 
These are thy fetters — seas and stormy air 
Are the wide barrier of thy borders, where, 

Among thy gallant sons that guard thee well, 

Thou laugh’st at enemies: who shall then declare 
The date of thy deep-founded strength, or tell 
How happy, in thy lap, the sons of men shall dwell ? 


24 


POEMS. 


TIIANATOPSIS. 

To him who n the love of Nature holds 
Communion with her visible forms, she speaks 
A various language ; for his gayer hours 
She has a voice of gladness, and a smile 
And eloquence of beauty, and she glides 
Into his darker musings, with a mild 
And healing sympathy, that steals away 
Their sharpness, ere lie is aware. When thoughts 
Of the last bitter hour come like a blight 
Over thy spirit, and sad images 
Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, 

And breathless darkness, and the narrow house, 
Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart ' 
Go forth, under the open sky, and list 
To Nature’s teachings, while from all around — 
Earth and her waters, and the depths of air, — 
Comes a still voice — Yet a few days, and thee 
The all-beholding sun shall see no more 
In all his course ; nor yet in the cold ground, 

Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears, 
Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist 
Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim 
Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again, 

And, lost each human trace, surrendering up 
Thine individual being, shalt thou go 
To mix for ever with the elements, 

To be a brother to the insensible rock 
And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain 
Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak 
Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould. 


THAHATOPSIS. 


25 


Yet not to thine eternal resting-place 
Shalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wish 
Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down 
With patriarchs of the infant world — with kings. 

The powerful of the earth — the wise, the good, 

Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, 

All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills 
Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun, — the vales 
Stretching in pensive quietness between ; 

The venerable woods — rivers that move 
In majesty, and the complaining brooks 
That make the meadows green ; and, poured round all, 
Old ocean’s gray and melancholy waste, — 

Are but the solemn decorations all 

Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun, 

The planets, all the infinite host of heaven, 

Are shining on the sad abodes of death, 

Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread 
The globe are but a handful to the tribes 
That slumber in its bosom. — Take the wings 
Of morning, pierce the Barcan wilderness, 

Or lose thyself in the continuous woods 
Where rolls the Oregan, and hears no sound, 

Save his own dasliings — yet — the dead are there : 
And millions in those solitudes, since first 
The flight of years began, have laid them down 
In their last sleep — the dead reign there alone. 

So shalt thou rest, and what if thou withdraw 
In silence from the living, and no friend 
Take note of thy departure ? All that breathe 
Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh 
When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care 
Plod on, and each one as before will chase 
His favourite phantom ; yet all these shall leave 
Their mirth and their employments, and shall come, 
And make their bed with thee. As the long train 
Of ages glide away, the sons of men, 

The youth in life’s green spring, and he who goes 

3 


20 


POEMS. 


In the full strength of years, matron, and maid, 

The speechless babe, and the gray-headed man, — 
Shall one by one be gathered to thy side, 

By those, who in their turn shall follow them. 

So live, that when thy summons comes to join 
The innumerable caravan, which moves 
To that mysterious realm, where each shall take 
His chamber in the silent halls of death, 

Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night, 
Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothe J 
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave, 

Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch 
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. 


THE YELLOW VIOLET. 

When beechen buds begin to swell, 

And woods the blue-bird’s warble know, 
The yellow violet’s modest bell 

Peeps from the last year’s leaves below. 

Ere russet fields their green resume, 

Sweet flower, I love, in forest bare, 

To meet thee, when thy faint perfume 
Alone is in the virgin air. 

Of all her train, the hands of Spring 
First plant thee in the watery mould, 
And I have seen thee blossoming 
Beside the snow-bank’s edges cold. 


INSCRIPTION FOR THE ENTRANCE TO A WOOD. 27 


Thy parent sun, who hade thee view 
Pale skies, and chilling moisture sip, 

Has bathed thee in his own bright hue, 
And streaked with jet thy glowing lip. 

Yet slight thy form, and low thy seat, 
And earthward bent thy gentle eye, 

Unapt the passing view to meet, 

When loftier flowers are flaunting nigh. 

Oft, in the sunless April day, 

Thy early smile has stayed my walk ; 

But midst the gorgeous blooms of May, 

I passed thee on thy humble stalk. 

So they, who climb to wealth, forget 
The friends in darker fortunes tried. 

I copied them — but I regret 

That I should ape the ways of pride. 

And when again the genial hour 
Awakes the painted tribes of light, 

I’ll not o’erlook the modest flower 
That made the woods of April bright. 


♦♦♦ 


INSCRIPTION FOR THE ENTRANCE TO A WOOD 

Stranger, if thou hast learned a truth which needN 
No school of long experience, that the world 
Is full of guilt and misery, and hast seen 
Enough of all its sorrows, crimes, and cares, 

To tire thee of it, enter this wild wood 


28 


POEMS 


And ’view the haunts cf Nature, rhe calm shade 
Shall bring a kindred calm, and the sweet breeze 
That makes the green leaves dance, shall waft a balm 
To thy sick heart. Thou wilt find nothing here 
Of all that pained thee in the haunts of men, 

And made thee loathe thy life. The primal curse 
Fell, it is true, upon the unsinning earth, 

But not in vengeance. God hath yoked to guilt 
Her pale tormentor, misery. Hence, these shades 
Are still the abodes of gladness ; the thick roof 
Of green and stirring branches is alive 
And musical with birds, that sing and sport 
In wantonness of spirit ; while below 
The squirrel, with raised paws and form erect, 

Chirps merrily. Throngs of insects in the glade 
Try their thin wings and dance in the warm beam 
That waked them into life. Even the green trees 
Partake the deep contentment ; as they bend 
To the soft winds, the sun from the blue sky 
Looks in and sheds a blessing on the scene. 

Scarce less the cleft-born wild-flower seems to enjoy 

Existence, than the winged plunderer 

That sucks its sweets. The mossy rocks themselves, 

And the old and ponderous trunks of prostrate trees 

That lead from knoll to knoll a causey rude 

Or bridge the sunken brook, and their dark roots, 

With all their earth upon them, twisting high, 

Breathe fixed tranquillity. The rivulet 

Sends forth glad sounds, and tripping o’er its bed 

Of pebbly sands, or leaping down the rocks, 

Seems, with continuous laughter, to rejoice , 

In its own being. Softly tread the marge, 

Lest from her midway perch thou scare the wren 
That dips her bill in water. The cool wind, 

That stirs the stream in play, shall come to thee, 
Like one that loves thee nor will let thee pass 
Hngreeted, and shall give its light embrace. 


TO A WATERFOWL. 


2S 


SONG. 

Soon as the glazed and gleaming snow 
Reflects the day-dawn cold and clear. 

The hunter of the west must go 
In depth of woods to seek the deer. 

His rifle on his shoulder placed, 

His stores of death arranged with skill, 

His moccasins and snow-shoes laced, — 
Why lingers he beside the hill ? 

Far, in the dim and doubtful light, 
Where woody slopes a valley leave, 

He sees what none but lover might, 

The dwelling of his Genevieve. 

And oft he turns his truant eye, 

And pauses oft, and lingers near ; 

But when he marks the reddening sky. 
He bounds away to hunt the deer. 


TO A WATERFOWL. 

Whither, midst falling dew, 

While glow the heavens with the last steps of day 
Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou persue 
Thy solitary way t 


30 


POEMS. 


Vainly the fowler’s eye 

Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, 

As, darkly seen against the crimson sky, 

Thy figure floats along. 

Seek’st thou the plashy brink 
Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, 

Or where the rocking billows rise and sink 
On the chafed ocean side ? 

There is a Power whose care 
Teaches thy way along that pathless coast, — 

The desert and illimitable air, — 

Lone wandering, but not lost 

All day thy wings have fanned, 

At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere, 

Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land, 

Though the dark night is near. 

And soon that toil shall end ; 

Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest, 

And scream among thy fellows ; reeds shall bend, 
Soon, o’er thy sheltered nest 

Thou’rt gone, the abyss of heaven 
Hath swallowed up thy form; yet, on my heart 
Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given, 

And shall not soon depart 

_ He who, from zone to zone, 

Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight 
In the long way that I must tread alone, 

Will lead my steps aright 


GREEN RIVER. 


31 


GREEN RIVER. 

When breezes are soft and skies are fair, 

I steal an hour from study and care, 

And hie me away to the woodland scene, 

Where wanders the stream with waters of green. 

As if the bright fringe of herbs on its brink 
Had given their stain to the wave they drink ; 

And they, whose meadows it murmurs through, 
Have named the stream from its own fair hue. 

Yet pure its waters — its shallows are bright 
With coloured pebbles and sparkles of light, 

And clear the depths where its eddies play, 

And dimples deepen and whirl away, 

And the plane-tree’s speckled arms o’ershoot 
The swifter current that mines its root, 

Through whose shifting leaves, as you walk the hill. 
The quivering glimmer of sun and rill 
With a sudden flash on the eye is thrown, 

Like the ray that streams from the diamond-stone. 
Oh, loveliest there the spring days come, 

With blossoms, and birds, and wild bees' hum ; 

The flowers of summer are fairest there, 

And freshest the breath of the summer air ; 

And sweetest the golden autumn day 
In silence and sunshine glides away. 

Yet fair as thou art, thou shunnest to glide, 
Beautiful stream ! by the village side ; 

But windest away from haunts of men, 

To quiet valley and shaded glen ; 

And forest, and meadow, and slope of hill. 

Around thee, are lonely, lovely, and stilL 


32 


POEMS. 


Lonely — save when, by thy rippling tides, 

From thicket to thicket the angler glides ; 

Or the simpler comes, with basket and book. 

For herbs of power on thy banks to look : 

Or haply, some idle dreamer, like me, 

To wander, and muse, and gaze on thee. 

Still — save the chirp of birds that feed 
On the river cherry and seedy reed, 

And thy own wild music gushing out 
With mellow murmur or fairy shout, 

From dawn to the blush of another day. 

Like traveller singing along his way. 

That fairy music I never hear, 

Nor gaze on those waters so green and clear, 

And mark them winding away from sight, 

Darkened with shade or flashing with light, 

While o’er them the vine to its thicket clings, 

And the zephyr stoops to freshen his wings, 

But I wish that fate had left me free 
To wander these quiet haunts with thee, 

Till the eating cares of earth should depart, 

And the peace of the scene pass into my heart ; 

And I envy thy stream, as its glides along, 

Through its beautiful banks in a trance of song. 

Though forced to drudge for the dregs of men, 
And scrawl strange words with the barbarous pen, 
And mingle among the jostling crowd, 

Where the sons of strife are subtle and loud — 

I often come to this quiet place, 

To breathe the airs that ruffle thy face, 

And gaze upon thee in silent dream, 

For in thy lonely and lovely stream 
An image of that calm life appears 
That won my heart in my greener years. 


A. WINTEE PIEOE. 


33 


A WINTER PIECE. 

The time has been that these wild solitudes, 

Yet beautiful as wild, were trod by me 
Oftener than now ; and when the ills of life 
Had chafed my spirit — when the unsteady pulse 
Beat with strange flutterings — I would wander forth 
And seek the woods. The sunshine on my path 
Was to me as a friend. The swelling hills, 

The quiet dells retiring far between, 

With gentle invitation to explore 

Their windings, were a calm society 

That talked with me and soothed me. Then the chant 

Of birds, and chime of brooks, and soft caress 

Of the fresh sylvan air, made me forget 

The thoughts that broke my peace, and I began 

To gather simples by the fountain’s brink, 

And lose myself in day-dreams. While I stood 
In nature’s loneliness, I was with one 
With whom I early. grew familiar, one 
Who never had a frown for me, whose voice 
Never rebuked me for the hours I stole 
From cares I loved not, but of which the world 
Deems highest, to converse with her. When shrieked 
The bleak November winds, and smote the woods, 
And the brown fields were herbless, and the shades, 
That met above the merry rivulet, 

Were spoiled, I sought, I loved them still ; they seemed 
Like old companions in adversity. 

Still there was beauty in my walks ; the brook, 
Bordered with sparkling frost-work, was as gay 
As with its fringe of summer flowers. Afar, 

The village with its spires, the path of streams 


34 


POEMS. 


And dim receding valleys, hid before 

By interposing trees, lay visible 

Through the bare grove, and my familiar ha ants 

Seemed new to me. Nor was I slow to come 

Among them, when the clouds, from their still skirts 

Had shaken down on earth the feathery snow, 

And all was white. The pure keen air abroad, 
Albeit it breathed no scent of herb, nor heard 
Love-call of bird nor merry hum of bee, 

Was not the air of death. Bright mosses crept 
Over the spotted trunks, and the close buds, 

That lay along the boughs, instinct with life, 
Patient, and waiting the soft breath of Spring, 
Feared not the piercing spirit of the North. 

The snow-bird twittered on the beechen bough, 

And ’neath the hemlock, whose thick branches bent 
Beneath its bright cold burden, and kept dry 
A circle, on the earth, of withered leaves, 

The partridge found a shelter. Through the snow 
The rabbit sprang away. The lighter track 
Of fox, and the racoon’s broad path, were there, 
Crossing each other. From his hollow tree, 

The squirrel was abroad, gathering the nuts 
Just fallen, that asked the winter cold and sway 
Of winter blast, to shake them from their hold. 

But Winter has yet brighter scenes, — he boasts 
Splendors beyond what gorgeous Summer knows ; 

Or Autumn with his many fruits, and woods 
All flushed with many hues. Come when the rains 
Have glazed the snow, and clothed the trees with ice 
While the slant sun of February pours 
Into the bowers a flood of light. Approach 1 
The incrusted surface shall upbear thy steps, 

And the broad arching portals of the grove 
Welcome thy entering. Look! the massy trunks 
Are cased in the pure crystal; each light spray, 
Nodding and tinkling in the breath of heaven. 


A WINTEB PIECE. 


35 


Is studded with its trembling water-drops, 

That glimmer with an amethystine light. 

But round the parent stem the long low boughs 
Bend, in a glittering ring, and arbors hide 
The glassy floor. Oh I you might deem the spot 
The spacious cavern of some virgin mine, 

Deep in the womb of earth — where the gems grow. 
And diamonds put forth radiant rods and bud 
With amethyst and topaz — and the place 
Lit up, most royally, with the pure beam 
That dwells in them. Or haply the vast hall 
Of fairy palace, that outlasts the night, 

And fades not in the glory of the sun ; — 

Where crystal columns send forth slender shafts 
And crossing arches ; and fantastic aisles 
Wind from the sight in brightness, and are lost 
Among the crowded pillars. Raise thine eye ; 

Thou seest no cavern roof, no palace vault ; 

There the blue sky and the white drifting cloud 
Look in. Again the wildered fancy dreams 
Of spouting fountains, frozen as they rose, 

And fixed, with all their branching jets, in air, 

And all their sluices sealed. All, all is light ; 

Light without shade. But all shall pass away 
With the next sun. . From numberless vast trunks, 
Loosened, the crashing ice shall make a sound 
Like the far roar of rivers, and the eve 
Shall close o’er the brown woods as it was wont. 

And it is pleasant, when the noisy streams 
Are just set free, and milder suns melt off 
The plashy snow, save only the firm drift 
In the deep glen or the close shade of pines, — 

"Tis pleasant to behold the wreaths of smoke 
Roll up among the maples of the hill, 

Where the shrill sound of youthful voices wakes 
The shriller echo, as the clear pure lymph, 

That from the wounded trees, in twinkling drops, 


86 


POEMS. 


Falls, mid the golden brightness of the morn, 

Is gathered in with brimming pails, and oft, 
Wielded by sturdy hands, the stroke of axe 
Makes the woods ring. Along the quiet air, 

Come and float calmly off the soft light clouds, 
Such as you see in summer, and the winds 
Scarce stir the branches. Lodged in sunny cleft, 
Where the cold breezes come not, blooms alone 
The little wind-flower, whose just opened eye 
Is blue as the spring heaven it gazes at — 

Startling the loiterer in the naked groves 
With unexpected beauty, for the time 
Of blossoms and green leaves is yet afar. 

And ere it comes, the encountering winds shall oft 
Muster their wrath again, and rapid clouds 
Shade heaven, and bounding on the frozen earth 
Shall fall their volleyed stores, rounded like hail 
And white like snow, and the loud North again 
Shall buffet the vexed forest in his rage. 


THE WEST WIND. 


Beneath the forest’s skirt I rest, 

Whose branching pines rise dark and high, 
And hear the breezes of the West 
Among the thread-like foliage sigh. 

Sweet Zephyr! why that sound of woe } 

Is not thy home among the flowers P 
Do not the bright June roses blow, 

To meet thy kiss at morning hours S 


TFIE BUKIAL-PLACE. 


37 


And lo ! thy glorious realm outspread — 
Yon stretching valleys, green and gay, 
And yon free hill-tops, o’er whose head 
The loose white clouds are borne away 

And there the full broad river runs, 

And many a fount wells fresh and sweet, 
To cool thee when the mid-day suns 

Have made thee faint beneath their heat. 

Thou wind of joy, and youth, and love ; 

Spirit of the new-wakened year] 

The sun in his blue realm above 

Smooths a bright path when thou art here 

In lawns the murmuring bee is heard, 

The wooing ring-dove in the shade ; ' 

On thy soft breath, the new-fledged bird 
Takes wing, half happy, half afraid. 

Ah ! thou art like our wayward race ; — 
.When not a shade of pain or ill 
Dims the bright smile of Nature’s face, 

Thou lov’st to sigh and murmur still. 


THE BURIAL-PLACE. 

A FRAGMENT. 

Erewhile. on England’s pleasant shores, our siret’ 
Belt not their churchyards unadorned with shades 
Or blossoms, but indulgent to the strong 
And natural dread of man’s last home, the grave, 
its frost and silence — they disposed around, 

4 


38 


POEMS. 


To soothe the melancholy spirit that dwelt 
Too sadly on life’s close, the forms and hues 
Of vegetable beauty. /There the yew, 

Green even amid the ©nows of winter, told 

Of immortality, and gracefully 

The willow, a perpetual mourner, drooped ; 

And there the gadding woodbine crept about, 

And there the ancient ivy. From the spot 
Where the sweet maiden, in her blossoming years 
Cut off, was laid with streaming eyes, and hands 
That trembled as they placed her there, the rose 
Sprung modest, on bowed stalk, and better spoke 
Her graces, than the proudest monument.*) 

There children set about their playmate’s grave 
The pansy. On the infant’s little bed, 

Wet at its planting with maternal tears, 

Emblem of early sweetness, early death, 

Nestled the lowly primrose. Childless dames, 

And maids that would not raise the reddened eye— 
Orphans, from whose young lids the light of joy 
Fled early, — silent lovers, who had given 
All that they lived for to the arms of earth, 

Came often, o’er the recent graves to strew 
Their offerings, rue, and rosemary, and flowers. 

The pilgrim bands who passed the sea to keep 
Their Sabbaths in the eye of God alone, 

In his wide temple of the wilderness, 

Brought not these simple customs of the heart 
With them. It might be, while they laid their dead 
By the vast solemn skirts of the old groves, 

And the fresh virgin soil poured forth strange flowers 
About their graves ; and the familiar shades 
Of their own native isle, and wonted blooms, 

And herbs were wanting, which the pious hand 
Might plant or scatter there, these gentle rites 
Passed out of use. Now they are scarcely known 
And rarely in our borders may you meet 


‘BLESSED ARE THEY THAT MOURN.” 


89 


The tall larch, sighing in the burial-place, 

Or willow, trailing low its boughs to hide 

The gleaming marble. Naked rows of graves 

And melancholy ranks of monuments 

Are seen instead, where the coarse grass, between. 

Shoots up its dull green spikes, and in the wind 

Hisses, and the neglected bramlle nigh, 

Offers its berries to the schoolboy’s hand, 

In vain — they grow too near the dead. Yet here, 
Nature, rebuking the neglect of man, 

Plants often, by the ancient mossy stone, 

The brier rose, and upon the broken turf 
That clothes the fresher grave, the strawberry plant 
Sprinkles its swell with blossoms, and lays forth 
Her ruddy, pouting fruit. ***** 


“ BLESSED ARE THEY THAT MOURN.* 

Oh, deem not they are blest alone 
Whose lives a peaceful tenor keep : 

The Power who pities man, has shown 
A blessing for the eyes that weep. 

The light of smiles shall fill again 
The lids that overflow with tears ; 

And weary hours of woe and pain 
Are promises of happier years. 

There is a day of sunny rest 

For every dark and troubled night; 

And grief may bide an evening guest, 

But joy shall come with early light 


40 


POEMS 


And thou, who, o’er thy friend’s low biei : 

Dost shed the bitter drops like rain, 

Hope that a brighter, happier sphere 
Will give him to thy arms again. 

Nor let the good man’s trust depart, 
Though life its common gifts deny, — 
Though with a pierced and bleeding heart 
And spurned of men, he goes to die. 

For God hath marked each sorrowing day 
And numbered every secret tear, 

And heaven’s long age of bliss shall pay 
For all his children suffer here. 


-NO MAN KNOWETH HIS SEPULCHRE."' 

When he, who, from the scourge of wrong 
Aroused the Hebrew tribes to fly, 

Saw the fair region, promised long, 

And bowed him on the hills to die ; 

God made his grave, to men unknown, 
Where Moab’s rocks a vale infold, 

And laid the aged seer alone 
To slumber while the world grows old. 

Thus still, whene’er the good and just 
Close the dim eye on life and pain, 
Heaven watches o’er their sleeping dust 
Till the pure spirit comes again. 


A WALK AT STJXSET. 


4] 


Though nameless, trampled, and forgot, 
His servant’s humble ashes lie, 

Yet God has marked and sealed the spot. 
To call its inmate to the sky. 


A WALK AT SUNSET. 

When insect wings are glistening in the beam 
Of the low sun, and mountain-tops are bright. 

Oh, let me, by the crystal valley-stream, 

Wander amid the mild and mellow light; 

A nd while the wood-thrush pipes his evening lay, 
Give me one lonely hour to hymn the setting day. 

Oh, sun ! that o’er the western mountains now 
Go’st down in glory ! ever beautiful 

And blessed is thy radiance, whether thou 

Colorest the eastern heaven and night-mist cool, 
Till the bright day-star vanish, or on high 
Climbest and streamest thy white splendors from mid- 
sky. 

Yet, loveliest are thy setting smiles, and fair, 
Fairest of all that earth beholds, the hues 

That live among the clouds, and flush the air, 
Lingering and deepening at the hour of dews. 
Then softest gales are breathed, and softest heard 
The plaining voice of streams, and pensive note of 
bird. 

They who here roamed, of yore, the forest wide, 
Felt, by such charm, their simple bosoms won ; 

They deemed their quivered warrior, when he died 
Went to bright isles beneath the setting sun; 


42 


POEMS. 


Where winds are aye at peace, and skies are fail, 

And purple-skirted clouds curtain the crimson air. 

So, with the glories of the dying day, 

Its thousand trembling lights and changing huea, 
The memory of the brave who passed away 
Tenderly mingled ; — fitting hour to muse 
On such grave theme, and sweet the dream that shed 
Brightness and beauty round the destiny of the dead. 

For ages, on the silent forests here, 

Thy beams did fall before the red man came 
To dwell beneath them ; in their shade the deer 
Fed, and feared not the arrow’s deadly aim. 

Nor tree was felled in all that world of woods, 

Save by the beaver’s tooth, or winds, or rush of floods. 

Then came the hunter tribes, and thou didst look, 
For ages, on their deeds in the hard chase, 

And well-fought wars ; green sod and silver brook 
Took the first stain of blood; before thy face 
The warrior generations came and passed, 

And glory was laid up for many an age to last. 

Now they are gone, gone as thy setting blaze 
Goes down the west, while night is pressing on, 
And with them the old tale of better days, 

And trophies of remembered power, are gone. 
Yon field that gives the harvest, where the plough 
Strikes the white bone, is all that tells their story now 

I stand upon their ashes in thy beam, 

The offspring of another race, I stand, 

Beside a stream they loved, this valley stream ; 
And where the night-fire of the quivered band 
Showed the gray oak by fits, and war-song rung, 

I teach the quiet shades the strains of this new tongue 


HYMN TO DEATH. 


43 


Farewell! but thou shalt come again — thy light 
Must shine on other changes, and behold 
The place of the thronged city still as night — 
States fallen — new empires built upon the old — 
But never shalt thou see these realms again 
Darkened by boundless groves, and roamed by savage 
men. 


HYMN TO DEATH. 

Oh ! could I hope the wise and pure in heart 
Might hear my song without a frown, nor deem 
My voice unworthy of the theme it tries, — 

I would take up the hymn to Death, and say 
To the grim power, The world hath slandered thee 
And mocked thee. On thy dim and shadowy brow 
They place an iron crown, and call thee king 
Of terrors, and the spoiler of the world, 

Deadly assassin, that strik’st down the fair, 

The loved, the good-— that breathest on the lights 
Of virtue set along the vale of life, 

And they go out in darkness. I am come, 

Not with reproaches, not with cries and prayers, 
3uch as have stormed thy stern, insensible ear 
From the beginning ; I am come to speak 
Thy praises. True it is, that I have wept 
Thy conquests, and may weep them yet again 
And thou from some I love wilt take a life 
Dear to me as my 9 wn. Yet while the spell 
Is on my spirit, and I talk with thee 
In sight of all thy trophies, face to face, 

Meet is it that my voice should utter forth 
Thy nobler triumphs ; I will teach the world 


44 


POEM& 


To thank thee. Who are thine accusers? — Who? 

The living ! — they who never felt thy power, 

And know thee not. The curses of the wretch 
Whose crimes are ripe, his sufferings when thy hand 
Is on him, and the hour he dreads is come, 

Are writ among thy praises. But the good — 

Does he whom thy kind hand dismissed to peace. 
Upbraid the gentle violence that took off 
His fetters, and unbarred his prison cell ? 

Raise then the hymn to Death. Deliverer ! 

God hath anointed thee to free the oppressed 
And crush the oppressor. When the armed chief. 
The conqueror of nations, walks the world, 

And it is changed beneath his feet, and all 
Its kingdoms melt into one mighty realm — 

Thou, while his head is loftiest and his heai’t 
Blasphemes, imagining his own right hand 
Almighty, thou dost set thy sudden grasp 
Upon him, and the links of that strong chain 
Which bound mankind are crumbled ; thou dost break 
Sceptre and crown, ana beat his throne to dusk 
Then the earth shouts with gladness, and her tribes 
• Gather within their ancient bounds again. 

Else had the mighty of the olden time, 

Nimrod, Sesostris, or the youth who feigned 
His birth from Libyan Ammon, smitten yet 
The nations with a rod of iron, and driven 
Their chariot o’er our necks. Thou dost avenge, 

[n thy good time, the wrongs of those who know 
No other friend. Nor dost thou interpose 
Only to lay the sufferer asleep, 

Where he who made him wretched troubles not 
His rest — thou dost strike down his tyrant too. 

Oh, there is joy when hands that held the scourge 
Drop lifeless, and the pitiless heart is cold. 

Thou too dost purge from earth its horrible 
And old idolatries ; — from the proud fanes 


HYMN TO DEATH. 


45 


Each to his grave their priests go out, till none 
Is left to teach their worship ; then the fires 
Of sacrifice are chilled, and the green moss 
O’ercreeps their altars ; the fallen images 
Cumber the weedy courts, and for loud hymns, 
Chanted by kneeling multitudes, the wind 
Shrieks in the solitary aisles. When he 
Who gives his life to guilt, and laughs at all 
The laws that God or man has made, and round 
Hedges his seat with power, and shines in wealth,— 
Lifts up his atheist front to scoff at Heaven, 

And celebrates his shame in open day, 

Thou, in the pride of all his crimes, cutt’st off 
The horrible example. Touched by thine, 

The extortioner’s hard hand foregoes the gold 
Wrung from the o’er-worn poor. The perjurer, 
Whose tongue was lithe, e’en now, and voluble 
Against his neighbor’s life, and he who laughed 
And leaped for joy to see a spotless fame 
Blasted before his own foul calumnies, 

Are emit with deadly silence. He, who sold 
His conscience to preserve a worthless life, 

Even while he hugs himself on his escape, 

Trembles, as, doubly terrible, at length, 

Thy steps o’ertake him, and there is no time 
For parley, nor will bribes unclench thy grasp. 

Oft, too, dost thou reform thy victim, long 
Ere his last hour. And when the reveller. 

Mad in the chase of pleasure, stretches on, 

And strains each nerve, and clears the path of life 
Like wind, thou point’st him to the dreadful goal, 
And shak’st thy hour-glass in his reeling eye, 

And clieck’st him in mid course. Thy skeleton hano 
Shows to the faint of spirit the right path, 

And he is warned, and fears to step aside. 

Thou sett’st between the ruffian and his crime 
Thy ghastly countenance, and his slack hand 
Drops the drawn knife. But, oh, most fearfully 


46 


POEMS. 


Dost thou show forth Heaven’s justice, when thy shafts 
Drink up the ebbing spirit — then the hard 
Of heart and violent of hand restores 
The treasure to the friendless wretch ho wronged. 
Then from the writhing bosom thou dost pluck 
The guilty secret ; lips, for ages sealed, 

Are faithless to their dreadful trust at length, 

And give it up ; the felon’s latest breath 
Absolves the innocent man who bears his crime ; 

The slanderer, horror-smitten, and in tears, 

Recalls the deadly obloquy he forged 
To work his brother’s ruin. Thou dost make 
Thy penitent victim utter to the air 
The dark conspiracy that strikes at life, 

And aims to whelm the laws ; ere yet the hour 
Is come, and the dread sign of murder given. 

( Thus, from the first of time, hast thou been found 
On virtue’s side ; the wicked, but for thee, 

Had been too strong for the good ; the great of earth 
Had crushed the weak for ever. Schooled in guile 
For ages, while each passing year had brought 
Its baneful lesson, they had filled the world 
With their abominations ; while its tribes, 

Trodden to earth, imbruted, and despoiled, 

Had knelt to them in worship ; sacrifice 
Had smoked on many an altar, temple roofs 
Had echoed with the blasphemous prayer and hymn r 
But thou, the great reformer of the world, 

Tak’st off the sons of violence and fraud 
In their green pupilage, their lore half learned — 

Ere guilt had quite o’errun the simple heart 
God gave them at their birth, and blotted out 
^.His image. Thou dost mark them flushed with hope, 
As on the threshold of their vast designs 
Doubtful and loose they stand, and strik’st them 
down. 


HYMN TO DEATH. 


47 


Alas! I little thought that the stern power 
Whose fearful praise I sung, would try me thus 
Before the strain was ended. It must cease — 

For he is in his grave who taught my youth 
The art of verse, and in the bud of life 
Offered me to the muses. Oh, cut off 
Untimely! when thy reason in its strength, 

Ripened by years of toil and studious search, 

And watch of Nature’s silent lessons, taught 
Thy hand to practise best the lenient art 
To which thou gavest thy laborious days, 

And, last, thy life. And, therefore, when the earth 

Received thee, tears were in unyielding eyes 

And on hard cheeks, and they who deemed thy skill 

Delayed their death-hour, shuddered and turned pale 

When thou wert gone. This faltering verse, which thou 

Shalt not, as wont, o’erlook, is all 1 have 

To offer at thy grave — this — and the hope 

To copy thy example, and to leave 

A name of which the wretched shall not think 

As of an enemy’s, whom they forgive 

As all forgive the dead. Rest, therefore, thou 

Whose early guidance trained my infant steps — 

Rest, in the bosom of God, till the brief sleep 

Of death is over, and a happier life 

Shall dawn to waken thine insensible dust. 

Now thou art not — and yet the men whose guilt 
Has wearied Heaven for vengeance — he who bea-e 
False witness — he who takes the orphan’s bread, 

And robs the widow — he who spreads abroad 
Polluted hands in mockery of prayer, 

Are left to cumber earth. Shuddering I look 
On what is written, yet I blot not out 
The desultory numbers ; let them stand. 

The record of an idle revery. 


48 


POEMS 


4 


THE MASSACRE AT SCIO. 

Weep not for Scio’s children slain; 

Their blood, by Turkish falchions shed 
Sends not its cry to Heaven in vain 
For vengeance on the murderer’s head 

Though high the warm red torrent ran 
Between the flames that lit the sky. 
Yet, for each drop, an armed man 
Shall rise, to free the land, or die. 

And for each corpse, that in the sea 
Was thrown, to feast the scaly herds, 

A hundred of the foe shall be 
A banquet for the mountain birds. 

Stern rites and sad, shall Greece ordain 
To keep that day, along her shore, 

Till the last link of slavery’s chain 
Is shivered, to be worn no more. 


THE INDIAN GIRL’S LAMENT. 

An Indian girl was sitting where 
Her lover, slain in battle, slept ; 

Her maiden veil, her own black hair, 
Came down o’er eyes that wept ; 

And wildly, in her woodland tongue. 
This sad aud simple lay she sung: 


t 


THE INDIAN GIEL’s LAMENT. 


49 


u I’ve pulled away the shrubs that grew 
Too close above thy sleeping head, 

And broke the forest boughs that threw 
Their shadows o’er thy bed, 

That, shining from the sweet southwest, 

The sunbeams might rejoice thy rest. 

u It was a weary, weary road 

That led thee to the pleasant coast, 

Where thou, in his serene abode, 

Hast met thy father’s ghost ; 

Where everlasting autumn lies 
On yellow woods and sunny skies. 

u ’Twas I the broidered mocsen made, 

That shod thee for that distant land, 

’Twas I thy bow and arrows laid 
Beside thy still cold hand ; 

Thy bow in many a battle bent, 

Thy arrows never vainly sent. 

44 With wampum belts I crossed thy breast, 

And wrapped thee in the bison’s hide. 

And laid the food that pleased thee best, 

In plenty, by thy side, 

And decked the^bravely, as became 
A warrior of illustrious name. 

“ Thou’rt happy now, for thou hast passed 
The long dark journey of the grave, 

And in the land of light, at last, 

Hast joined the good and brave; 

Amid the flushed and balmy air, 

The bravest and the loveliest there. 

54 Yet, oft to thine own Indian maid 

Even there thy thoughts will earthward stray, — 
To her who sits where thou wert laid, 

And weeps the hours away, 

5 


50 


POEMS. 


Yet almost can her grief forget. 

To think that thou dost love her yet. 

“ And thou, by one of those still lakes 
That in a shining cluster lie, 

On which the south wind scarcely breaks 
The image of the sky, 

A bower for thee and me hast made 
Beneath the many-colored shade. 

“ And thou dost wait and watch to meet 
My spirit sent to join the blessed, 

And, wondering what detains my feet 
From the bright land of rest, 

Dost seem, in every sound, to hear 
The rustling of my footsteps near.” 


}DE FOR AY AGRICULTURAL CELEBRATION 

Far back in the ages, 

The plough with wreaths was crowned ; 

The hands of kings and sages 
Entwined the chaplet round ; 

Till men of spoil disdained the toil 
By which the world was nourished, 

And dews of blood enriched the soil 
Where green their laurels flourished . 

— Now the world her fault repairs — 

The guilt that stains her story ; 

And weeps her crimes amid the cares 
That formed her earliest glory 


BIZPAH. 


51 


The proud throne shall crumble, 

The diadem shall wane, 

The tribes of earth shall humble 
The pride of those who reign ; 

And War shall lay his pomp away ; — 
The fame that heroes cherish, 

The glory earned in deadly fray 
Shall fade, decay, and perish. 

Honor waits, o’er all the Earth, 
Through endless generations, 

The art that calls her harvests forth, 
And feeds the expectant nations. 


RIZPAH. 


Aid se delivered them into the hands of the Gibeonites, and they hanged 
Ifceir '.z die hill before the Lord; and they fell all seven together, and were put 
to Until in the days of the harvest, in the first days, in the beginning of barley- 
harvet.t 

Ar.a Rizpah, the daughter of Aiah, took sackcloth, and spread it for her upon 
the rcca. from the beginning of harvest until the water dropped upon them out 
of heaven, and suffered neither the birds of the ail - to rest upon them by day, nor 
the beasts of the field by night. 2 Samuel, xxi. io 

Hear what the desolate Rizpah said, 

As on Gibeah’s rocks'she watched the dead. 

The sons of Michal before her lay, 

And her own fair children, dearer than they: 

By a death of shame they all had died, 

And were stretched on the bare rock, side by side. 

And Rizpah, once the loveliest of all 

That bloomed and smiled in the court of Saul, 

All wasted with watching and famine now, 

And scorched by the sun her haggard brow, 

Sat mournfully guarding their corpses there, 

And murmured a strange and solemn air ; 

The low, heart-broken, and wailing strain 
Of a mother that mourns her children slain: 


52 


POEMS. 


“ I have made the crags my home, and spread 
On their desert backs my sackcloth bed , 

I have eaten the bitter herb of the rocks, 

And drunk the midnight dew in my locks ; 

I have wept till I could not weep, and the pain 
Of my burning eyeballs went to my brain. 

Seven blackened corpses before me lie, 

In the blaze of the sun and the winds of the sky. 

I have watched them through the burning day, 

And driven the vulture and raven away ; 

And the cormorant wheeled in circles round. 

Yet feared to alight on the guarded ground. 

And when the shadows of twilight came, 

I have seen the hyena’s eyes of flame, 

And heard at my side his stealthy tread, 

But aye at my shout the savage fled : 

And I threw the lighted brand to fright 
The jackal and wolf that yelled in the night. 

“Ye were foully murdered, my hapless sons. 

By the hands of wicked and cruel ones ; 

Ye fell, in your fresh and blooming prime, 

All innocent, for your father’s crime. 

He sinned — but he paid the price of his guilt 
When, his blood by a nameless hand was spilt ; 

When he strove with the heathen host in vain, 

And fell with the flower of his people slain, 

And the sceptre his children’s hands should sway 
From his injured lineage passed away. 

“ But I hoped that the cottage roof would be 
A safe retreat for my sons and me ; 

And that while they ripened to manhood fast, 

They should wean my thoughts from the woes of the past 
And my bosom swelled with a mother s pride, 

As they stood in their beauty and strength by my side 
Tall like their sire, with the princely grace 
Of his stately form, and the bloom of his face 


THE OLD MAN’S FUNERAL. 


53 


“ Oh, what an hour for a mother’s heart, 

When the pitiless ruffians tore us apart ! 

When I clasped their knees and wept and prayed, 
And struggled and shrieked to Heaven for aid, 
And clung to my sons with desperate strength, 
Till the murderers loosed my hold at length, 

And bore me breathless and faint aside, 

In their iron arms, while my children died. 

They died — and the mother that gave them birth 
Is forbid to cover their bones with earth. 

“ The barley-harvest was nodding white, 

When my children died on the rocky height, 

And the reapers were singing on hill and plain, 
When I came to my task of sorrow and pain. 

But now the season of rain is nigh, 

The sun is dim in the thickening sky, 

And the clouds in sullen darkness rest 
Where he hides his light at the doors of the wesu 
I hear the howl of the wind that brings 
The long drear storm on its heavy wings ; 

But the howling wind and the driving rain 
Will beat on my houseless head in vain : 

I shall stay, from my murdered sons to scare 
The beasts of the desert, and fowls of air.” 


THE OLD MAN’S FUNEKAL. 

I saw an aged man upon his bier, 

His hair was thin and white, and on his brow 
A record of the cares of many a year ; — 

Cares that were ended and forgotten now. 

And there was sadness round, and faces bowed, 

A nd woman’s tears fell fast, and children wailed aloud 


54 


POEMS. 


Then rose another hoary man and said, 

In faltering accents, to that weeping train, 

“ Why mourn ye that our aged friend is dead? 

Ye are not sad to see the gathered grain, 

Nor when their mellow fruit the orchards cast, 
Nor when the yellow woods let fall the ripened 
mast. 

“Ye sigh not when the sun, his course fulfilled, 

His glorious course, rejoicing earth and sky, 

In the soft evening, when the winds are stilled, 
Sinks where his islands of refreshment lie. 

And leaves the smile of his departure, spread 
O’er the warm-colored heaven and ruddy mountain 
head. 

“ Why weep ye then for him, who, having won 
The bound of man’s appointed years, at last, 
Life’s blessings all enjoyed, life’s labors done, 
Serenely to his final rest has passed ; 

While the soft memory of his virtues, yet, 

Lingers like twilight hues, when the bright sun is 
set? 

His youth was innocent ; his riper age 
Marked with some act of goodness every day • 
And watched by eyes that loved him, calm, and sage, 
Faded his late declining years away. 

Cheerful he gave his being up, and went 
To share the holy rest that waits a life well spent 

* That life was happy ; every day he gave 
Thanks for the lair existence that was his ; 

For a sick fancy made him not her slave, 

To mock him with her phantom miseries. 

No chronic tortures racked his aged limb, 

For luxury and sloth had nourished none for him 


THE EIY ULET. 


55 


"* And I am glad that he has lived thus long, 

And glad that he has gone to his reward ; 

Nor can I deem that nature did him wrong, 
Softly to disengage the vital cord. 

For when his hand grew palsied, and his eye 
Dark with the mists of age, it was his time to die 


THE RIVULET. 

This little rill, that from the springs 
Of yonder grove its current brings, 

Plays on the slope awhile, and then 
Goes prattling into groves again, 

Oft to its warbling waters drew 
My little feet, when life was new. 

When woods m early green were dressed. 
And from the chambers of the west 
The warmer breezes, travelling out, 
Breathed the new scent of flowers about, 
My truant steps from home would stray, 
Upon its grassy side to play, 

List the brown thrasher’s vernal hymn, 
And crop the violet on its brim, 

With blooming cheek and open brow, 

As young and gay, sweet rill, as thou. 

And when the days of boyhood came, 
And I had grown in love with fame, 

Duly I sought thy banks, and tried 
My first rude numbers by thy side. 

Words cannot tell how bright and gay 
The scenes of life before me lay. 


56 


POEMS 


Then glorious In pes, that now to speak 
Would bring the blood into my cheek. 
Passed o’er me ; and I wrote, on high, 

A name I deemed should never die. 

Years change thee not. Upon yon hil. 
The tall old maples, verdant still, 

Yet tell, in grandeur of decay, 

How swift the years have passed away. 
Since first, a child, and half afraid. 

I wandered in the forest shade 
Thou, ever joyous rivulet, 

Dost dimple, leap, and prattle yet ; 

And sporting with the sands that pave 
The windings of thy silver wave, 

And dancing to thy own wild chime, 
Thou laugliest at the lapse of time. 

The same sweet sounds are in my ear 
My early childhood loved to hear; 

As pure thy limpid waters run ; 

As bright they sparkle to the sun ; 

As fresh and thick the bending ranks 
Of herbs that line thy oozy banks ; 

The violet there, in soft May dew, 

Comes up, as modest and as blue ; 

As green amid thy current’s stress, 

Floats the scarce-rooted watercress : 

And the brown ground-bird, in thy glen. 
Still chirps as merrily as then. 

Thou changest not — but I am changed 
Since first thy pleasant banks I ranged ; 
And the grave stranger, come to see 
The play-place of his infancy. 

Has scarce a single trace of him 
Who sported once upon thy brim. 

The visions of my youth are past — 

Too bright, too beautiful to last. 


THE EIYULET. 


57 


I’ve tried the world — it wears no more 
The coloring of romance it wore. 

Yet well has Nature kept the truth 
She promised in my earliest youth. 

The radiant beauty shed abroad 
On all the glorious works of God, 

Shows freshly, to my sobered eye, 

Each charm it wore in days gone by. 

A few brief years shall pass away, 
And I, all trembling, weak, and gray, 
Bowed to the earth, which waits to fold 
My ashes in the embracing mould, 

(If haply the dark will of fate 
Indulge my life so long a date), 

May come for the last time to look 
Upon my childhood’s favorite brook. 
Then dimly on my eye shall gleam 
The sparkle of thy dancing stream ; 
And faintly on my ear shall fall 
Thy prattling current’s merry call ; 

Yet shalt thou flow as glad and bright 
As when thou met’st my infant sight. 

And I shall sleep — and on thy side, 
As ages after-ages glide, 

Children their early sports shall try, 
And pass to hoary age and die. 

But thou, unchanged from year to year, 
Gayly shalt play and glitter here ; 

Amid young flowers and tender grass 
Thy endless infancy shalt pass ; 

And, singing down thy narrow glen, 
Shalt mock the fading race of men. 


POEMo. 


MARCH 


The stormy March is come at last 
With wind, and cloud, and changing skies ; 

I hear the rushing of the blast, 

That through the snowy valley flies* 

Ah, passing few are they who speak, 

Wild stormy month ! in praise of thee • 

Yet, though thy winds are loud and bleak. 
Thou art a welcome month to me. 

For thou, to northern lands, again 
The glad and glorious sun dost bring, 

And thou hast joined the gentle train 
And wear st the gentle name of Spring. 

And, in thy reign of blast and storm, 

Smiles many a long, bright, sunny day, 

When the changed winds are soft and warm. 
And heaven puts on the blue of May. 

Then sing aloud the gushing rills 
In joy that they again are free. 

And, brightly leaping down the hills, 

Begin their journey to the sea. 

The year’s departing beauty hides 
Of wintry storms the sullen threat; 

But in thy sternest frown abides 
A look of kindly promise yet. 


AN INDIAN STORY. 


59 


Thou bring’st the hope of those calm skies, 
And that soft time of sunny showers, 
When the wide bloom, on earth that lies, 
Seems of a brighter world than ours. 


CONSUMPTION. 

Ay, thou art for the grave ; thy glances shine 
Too brightly to shine long ; another Spring 

Shall deck her for men’s eyes, — but not for thine — 
Sealed in a sleep which knows no wakening. 

The fields for thee have no medicinal leaf, 

And the vexed ore no mineral of power; 

Ind they who love thee wait in anxious grief 
Till the slow plague shall bring the fatal hour. 

■Jlide softly to thy rest then ; Death should come 
Gently, to one of gentle mould like thee, 

As light winds wandering through groves of bloom 
Detach the delicate blossom from the tree. 

Close thy sweet eyes, calmly, and without pain ; 

And we will trust ii^God to see thee yet again. 


AN INDIAN STORY. 

*■ I know where the timid fawn abides 
In the depths of the shaded dell, 

Where the leaves are broad and the thicket hides 
With its many stems and its tangled sides, 

From the eye of the hunter well. 


60 


POEMS. 


“ I know where the young May violet grows, 

In its lone and lowly nook, 

On the mossy bank, where the larch-tree throws 
Its broad dark boughs, in solemn repose, 

Far over the silent brook. 


K And that timid fawn starts not with fear 
When I steal to her secret bower; 

And that young May violet to me is dear, 

A.nd I visit the silent streamlet near, 

To look on the lovely flower.” 

Thus Maquon sings as he lightly walks 
To the hunting-ground on the hills ; 

’Tis a song of his maid of the woods and rocks, 
With her bright black eyes and long black locks, 
And voice like the music of rills. 


He goes to the chase — but evil eyes 
Are at watch in the thicker shades ; 

For she was lovely that smiled on his sighs, 
And he bore, from a hundred lovers, his prize. 
The flower of the forest maids. 


The boughs in the morning wind are stirred, 
And the woods their song renew, 

With the early carol of many a bird, 

And the quickened tune of the streamlet heard 
Where the hazels trickle with dew. 


And Maquon has promised his dark-haired maid, 
Ere eve shall redden the sky, 

A good red deer from the forest shade, 

That bounds with the herd through grove and glade 
At her cabin-door shall lie. 


AN INDIAN STOEY. 


61 


Tlie hollow woods, in the setting sun, 

Ring shrill with the fire-bird’s lay ; 

And Maquon’s sylvan labors are done, 

And his shafts are spent, but the spoil they won 
He bears on his homeward way. 


He stops near his bower — his eye perceives 
Strange traces along the ground — 

At once to the earth his burden he heaves, 

He breaks through the veil of boughs and leaves, 
And gains its door with a bound. 


But the vines are torn on its walls that leant, 

And all from the young shrubs there 
By struggling hands have the leaves been rent, 
And there hangs on the sassafras, broken and bent. 
One tress of the well-known hair. 


But where is she who, at this calm hour, 
Ever watched his coming to see ? 

She is not at the door, nor yet in the bower; 

He calls — but he only hears on the flower 
The hum of the laden bee. 

I': is not a time for idle grief, 

Nor a time for tears to flow ; 

The horror that freezes his limbs is brief — 

He grasps his war-axe and bow, and a sheaf 
Of darts made sharp for the foe. 

And he looks for the print of the ruffian’s feet, 
Where he bore the maiden away ; 

And he darts on the fatal path more fleet 

Than the blast hurries the vapor and sleet 
O’er the wild November day. 

6 


62 


POEMS. 


’Twas early summer when Maquon’s bride 
Was stolen away from his door; 

But at length the maples in crimson are dyed, 
And the grape is black on the cabin side, — 

And she smiles at his hearth once more. 

But far in the pine-grove, dark and cold. 

Where the yellow leaf falls not, 

Nor the autumn shines in scarlet and gold, 

There lies a hillock of fresh dark mould, 

In the deepest gloom of the spot. 

And the Indian girls, that pass that way, 

Point out the ravisher’s grave ; 

“ And how soon to the bower she loved,” they say. 

“ Returned the maid that was borne away 
From Maquon, the fond and the brave.” 


SUMMER WIND. 

It is a sultry day ; the sun has drunk 
The dew that lay upon the morning grass ; 

There is no rustling in the lofty elm 
That canopies my dwelling, and its shade 
Scarce cools me. All is silent, save the faint 
And interrupted murmur of the bee, 

Settling on the sick flowers, and then again 
Instantly on the wing. The plants around 
Feel the too potent fervors : the tall maize 
Rolls up its long green leaves ; the clover droops 
Its tender foliage, and declines its blooms. 

But far in the fierce sunshine tower the hills, 


SUMMER 'WIND. 


68 


With all their growth of woods, silent and stern, 
As if the scorching heat and dazzling light 
Were but an element they loved. Bright clouds, 
Motionless pillars of the brazen heaven, — 

Their bases on the mountains — their white tops 
Shining in the far ether — fire the air 
With a reflected radiance, and make turn 
The gazer’s eye away. For me, I lie 
Languidly in the shade, where the thick turf, 

Yet virgin from the kisses of the sun, 

Retains some freshness, and I woo the wind 
That still delays his coming. Why so slow, 
Gentle and voluble spirit of the air ? 

Oh, come and breathe upon the fainting earth 
Coolness and life. Is it that in his caves 
He hears me ? See, on yonder woody ridge, 

The pine is bending his proud top, and now 
Among the nearer groves, chestnut and oak 
Are tossing their green boughs about. He con es 
Lo, where the grassy meadow runs in waves 1 
The deep distressful silence of the scene 
Breaks up with mingling of unnumbered sounds 
And universal motion. He is come, 

Shaking a shower of blossoms from the shrubs, 
And bearing on their fragrance ; and he brings 
Music of birds, and rustling of young boughs, 

And sound of swaying branches, and the voice 
Of distant waterfalls. All the green herbs 
Are stirring in his breath ; a thousand flowers, 

By the road-side and the borders of the brook, 
Nod gayly to each other ; glossy leaves 
Are twinkling in the sun, as if the dew 
Were on them yet, and silver waters break 
Into small waves and sparkle as he conies. 


64 


POEMS. 


AN INDIAN AT THE BURIAL-PLACE OF HIS 
FATHERS. 

It is the spot I came to seek, — 

My fathers’ ancient burial-place 
Ere from these vales, ashamed and weak. 
Withdrew our wasted race. 

It is the spot — I know it well — 

Of which our old traditions tell. 

For here the upland bank sends out 
A ridge toward the river-side ; 

I know the shaggy hills about, 

The meadows smooth and wide, 

The plains, that, toward the southern sky, 
Fenced east and west by mountains lie. 

A white man, gazing on the scene, 

Would say a lovely spot was here, 

And praise the lawns, so fresh and green 
Between the hills so sheer. 

I like it not — I would the plain 
Lay in its tall old groves again. 

The sheep are on the slopes around, 

The cattle in the meadows feed, 

And laborers turn the crumbling ground. 

Or drop the yellow seed, 

And prancing steeds, in trappings gay. 

Whirl the bright chariot o’er the way. 


AN INDIAN AT THE BUEIAL- PLACE. 

Methinks it were a nobler sight 
To see these vales in woods arrayed; 
Their summits in the golden light, 

Their trunks in grateful shade, 

And herds of deer, that bounding go 
O’er hills and prostrate trees below. 

And then to mark the lord of all, 

The forest hero, trained to wars, 
Quivered and plumed, and lithe and tall, 
And seamed with glorious scars, 

Walk forth, amid his reign, to dare 
The wolf, and grapple with the bear. 

This bank, in which the dead were laid, 
Was sacred when its soil was ours ; 
Hither the silent Indian maid 

Brought wreaths of beads and flowers. 
And the gray chief and gifted seer 
Worshipped the god of thunders here. 

But now the wheat is green and high 
On clods that hid the warrior’s breast, 
And scattered in the furrows lie 
The weapons of his rest ; 

And there, in the loose sand, is thrown 
Of his large arm the mouldering bone. 

Ah, little thought the strong and brave 
Who bore their lifeless chieftain forth- 
Or the young wife that weeping gave 
Her first-born to the earth, 

That the pale race, who waste us now, 
Among their bones should guide the plough 

They waste us — ay — like April snow 
In the warm noon, we shrink away; 

And fast they follow, as we go 
Towards the setting day, — 


66 


POEMS. 


Till they shall fill the land, and we 
Are driven into the western sea. 

But I behold a fearful sign, 

To which the white men’s eyes are blind , 
Their race may vanish hence, like mine, 
And leave no trace behind, 

Save ruins o’er the region spread, 

And the white stones above the dead. 

Before these fields were shorn and tilled, 
Full to the brim our rivers flowed ; 

The melody of waters filled 
The fresh and boundless wood ; 

And torrents dashed and rivulets played, 
And fountains spouted in the shade. 

Those grateful sounds are heard no more, 
The springs are silent in the sun ; 

The rivers, by the blackened shore, 

With lessening current run ; 

The realm our tribes are crushed to get 
May be a barren desert yet. 


SONG. 

Dost thou idly ask to hear 
At what gentle seasons 
Nymphs relent, when lovers near 
Press the tenderest reasons ? 
Ah, they give their faith too oft 
To the careless wooer ; 

Maidens’ hearts are always soft : 
Would that men’s were truer 


SONG. 


67 


Woo the fair one, when around 
Early birds are singing ; 

When, o’er all the fragrant grour d, 

Early herbs are springing : 

When the brookside, bank, and grove, 

All with blossoms laden, 

Shine with beauty, breathe of love, — 

Woo the timid maiden. 

Woo her when, with rosy blush. 

Summer eve is sinking ; 

When, on rills that softly gush, 

Stars are softly winking ; 

When, through boughs that knit the bower, 
Moonlight gleams are stealing ; 

Woo her, till the gentle hour 
Wake a gentler feeling. 

Woo her, when autumnal dyes 
Tinge the woody mountain ; 

When the dropping foliage lies 
In the weedy fountain ; 

Let the scene, that tells how fast 
Youth is passing over, 

Warn her, ere her bloom is past, 

To secure her lover. 

Woo her, when the north winds call 
At the lattice nightly ; 

When, within the cheerful hall, 

Blaze the fagots brightly ; 

While the wintry tempest round 
Sweeps the landscape hoary, 

Sweeter in her ear shall sound 
Love’s delightful story. 


68 


POEMS. 


HYMN OF THE WALDENSES, 

Hear, Father, hear thy faint afflicted flock 
Cry to thee, from tho desert and the rock ; 

While those, who seek to slay thy children, hold 
Blasphemous worship under roofs of gold ; 

And the broad goodly lands, with pleasant airs 
That nurse the grape and wave the grain, are theira 

Yet better were this mountain wilderness, 

And this wild life of danger and distress — 
Watchings by night and perilous flight by day. 

And meetings in the depths of earth to pray, 

Better, far better, than to kneel with them, 

And pay the impious rite thy laws condemn. 

Thou, Lord, dost hold the thunder ; the firm land 
Tosses in billows when it feels thy hand ; 

Thou dashest nation against nation, then 
Stillest the angry world to peace again. 

Oh, touch their stony hearts who hunt thy sons — 
The murderers of our wives and little ones. 

Yet, mighty God, yet shall thy frown look forth 
Unveiled, and terribly shall shake the earth. 

Then the foul power of priestly sin and all 
Its long-upheld idolatries shall fall. 

Thou shalt raise up the trampled and oppressed 
And thy delivered saints shall dwell in rest. 


MONUMENT MOUNTAIN 


69 


MONUMENT MOUNTAIN. 

Thou who wouldst see the lovely and the wild 
Mingled in harmony on Nature’s face, 

Ascend our rocky mountains. Let thy foot 
Fail not with weariness, for on their tops 
The beauty and the majesty of earth, 

Spread wide beneath, shall make thee to forget 
The steep and toilsome way. There, as thou stand’st, 
The haunts of men below thee, and around 
The mountain summits, thy expanding heart 
Shall feel a kindred with that loftier world 
To which thou art translated, and partake 
The enlargement of thy vision. Thou shalt look 
Upon the green and rolling forest tops, 

And down into the secrets of the glens, 

And streams, that with their bordering thickets strive 
To hide their windings. Thou shalt gaze, at once, 
Here on white villages, and tilth, and herds, 

And swarming roads, and there on solitudes 
That only hear the torrent, and the wind, 

And eagle’s shriek. There is a precipice 
That seems a fragment of some mighty wall, 

Built by the hand that fashioned the old world, 

To separate its nations, and thrown down 

When the flood drowned them. To the north, a path 

Conducts you up the narrow battlement. 

Steep is the western side, shaggy and wild 
With mossy trees, and pinnacles of flint, 

And many a hanging crag. But, to the east, 

Sheer to the vale go down the bare old cliffs, — 

Huge pillars, that in middle heaven upbear 
Their weather-beaten capitals, here dark 


70 


POEMSL 


With moss the growth of centuries, and there 
Of chalky whiteness where the thunderbolt 
Has splintered them. It is a fearful thing 
To stand upon the beetling verge, and see 
Where storm and lightning, from that huge gray wali. 
Have tumbled down vast blocks, and at the base 
Dashed them in fragments, and to lay thine ear 
Over the dizzy depth, and hear the sound 
Of winds, that struggle with the woods below, 

Come up like ocean murmurs. But the scene 
Is lovely round; a beautiful river there 
Wanders amid the fresh and fertile meads, 

The paradise he made unto himself, 

Mining the soil for ages. On each side 
The fields swell upward to the hills ; beyond, 

Above the hills, in the blue distance, rise 

The mountain columns with which earth props heaven 

There is a tale about these reverend rocks, 

A sad tradition of unhappy love, 

And sorrows borne and ended, long ago, 

When over these fair vales the savage sought 
His game in the thick woods. There was a maid, 
The fairest of the Indian maids, bright-eyed, 

With wealth of raven tresses, a light form, 

And a gay heart. About her cabin-door 
The wide old woods resounded with her song 
And fairy laughter all the summer day. 

She loved her cousin ; such a love was deemed, 

By the morality of those stern tribes, 

Incestuous, and she struggled hard and long 
Against her love, and reasoned with her heart, 

As simple Indian maiden might. In vain. 

Then her eye lost its lustre, and her step 
Its lightness, and the gray-haired men that passed 
Her dwelling, wondered that they heard no more 
The accustomed song and laugh of her, whose looks 
Were like the cheerful smile of Spring, they said, 


MONUMENT MOUNTAIN. 


71 


Upon the Winter of their age. She went 
To weep where no eye saw, and was not found 
When all the merry girls were met to dance, 

And all the hunters of the tribe were out; 

Nor when they gathered from the rustling husk 
The shining ear ; nor when, by the river’s side, 

They pulled the grape and startled the wild shades 
With sounds of mirth. The keen-eyed Indian dames 
Would whisper to each other, as they saw 
Her wasting form, and say the girl will die. 

One day into the bosom of a friend, 

A playmate of her young and innocent years, 

She poured her griefs. “ Thou know’st, and thou alone.* 
She said, “ for I have told thee all my love, 

And guilt, and sorrow. I am sick of life. 

All night I weep in darkness, and the morn 
Glares on me, as upon a thing accursed, 

That has no business on the earth. I hate 
The pastimes and the pleasant toils that once 
I loved ; the cheerful voices of my friends 
Sound in my ear like mockings, and, at night, 

In dreams, my mother, from the land of souls, 

Calls me and chides me. All that look on me 
Do seem to know my shame ; I cannot bear 
Their eyes; I cannot from my heart root out 
The love that wrings it so, and I must die,” 

It was a summer morning, and they went 
To this old precipice. About the cliffs 
Lay garlands, ears of maize, and shaggy skins 
Of wolf and bear, the offerings of the tribe 
Here made to the Great Spirit, for they deemed 
Like worshippers of the .elder time, that God 
Doth walk on the high places and affect 
The earth-o’erlooking mountains. She had on 
The ornaments with which her father loved 
To deck the beauty of his bright-eyed girl. 


72 


POEMS* 


And bade her wear when stranger warriors earn© 

To be his guests. Here the friends sat them down, 
And sang, all day, old songs of love and death, 

And decked the poor wan victim’s hair with flowers 
And prayed that safe and swift might be her way 
To the calm world of sunshine, where no grief 
Makes the heart heavy and the eyelids red. 

Beautiful lay the region of her tribe 
Below her — waters resting in the embrace 
Of the wide forest, and maize-planted glades 
Opening amid the leafy wilderness. 

She gazed upon it long, and at the sight 
Of her own village peeping through the trees, 

And her own dwelling, and the cabin roof 
Of him she loved with an unlawful love, 

And came to die for, a warm gush of tears 
Ran from her eyes. But when the sun grew low 
And the hill shadows long, she threw herself 
From the steep rock and perished. There was scooped 
Upon the mountain’s southern slope, a grave; 

And there they laid her, in the very garb 
With which the maiden decked herself for death, 
With the same withering wild flowers in her hair. 
And o’er the mould that covered her, the tribe 
Built up a simple monument, a cone 
Of small loose stones. Thenceforward all who passed. 
Hunter, and dame, and virgin, laid a stone 
In silence oh the pile. It stands there yet. 

And Indians from the distant West, who come 
To visit where their fathers’ bones are laid, 

Yet tell the sorrowful tale, and to this day 
The mountain where the hapless maiden died 
Is called the Mountain of the Monument 


AFTER A TEMPEST. 


78 


AFTER A TEMPEST. 

Tiie day had been a day of wind and storm ; 

The wind was laid, the storm was overpast, 

And stooping from the zenith bright and warm 
Shone the great sun on the wide earth at last. 

I stood upon the upland slope, and cast ' 

Mine eye upon a broad and beauteous scene, 
Where the vast plain lay girt by mountains vast, 
And hills o’er hills lifted their heads of green, 

With pleasant vales scooped out and villages between 

The rain-drops glistened on the trees around, 
Whose shadows on the tall grass were not stirred, 
Save when a shower of diamonds, to the ground, 
Was shaken by the flight of startled bird ; 

For birds were warbling round, and bees were heard 
About the flowers ; the cheerful rivulet sung 
And gossiped, as he hastened ocean-ward; 

To the gray oak the squirrel, chiding, clung, 

And chirping from the ground the grasshopper up- 
sprung. 

And from beneath the leaves that kept them dry 
Flew many a glittering insect here and there, 

And darted up and down the butterfly, 

That seemed a living blossom of the air 
The flocks came scattering from the thicket, where 
The violent rain had pent them ; in the way 
Strolled groups of damsels frolicksome and fair; 
The farmer swung the scythe or turned the hay, 
And ’twixt the heavy swaths his children were at 


74 


POEMS. 


It was a scene of peace — and, like a spell, 

Did that serene and golden sunlight fall 
Upon the motionless wood that clothed the fell, 
And precipice upspringing like a wall, 

And glassy river and white waterfall, 

And happy living things that trod the bright 
And beauteous scene ; while far beyond them all. 
On many a lovely valley, out of sight, 

Was poured from the blue heavens the same soft gold- 
en light. 

I looked, and thought the quiet of the scene 
An emblem of the peace that yet shall be, 

When o’er earth’s continents, and isles between. 
The noise .of war shall cease from sea to sea, 

And married nations dwell in harmony; 

When millions, crouching in the dust to one, 

No more shall beg their lives on bended knee, 

Nor the black stake be dressed, nor in the sun 
The o’erlabored captive toil, and wish his life were 
done. 

Too long, at clash of arms amid her bowers 
And pools of blood, the earth has stood aghast, 

The fair earth,. that should only blush with flowers 
And ruddy fruits ; but not for aye can last 
The storm, and sweet the sunshine when ’tis past. 
Lo, the clouds roll away — they break — they fly, 
And, like the glorious light of summer, cast 
O’er the wide landscape from the embracing sky, 
On all the peaceful world the smile of heaven shall 
lie. 


AUTUMN WOODS. 


75 


AUTUMN WOODS 

Ere, in the northern gale, 

The summer tresses of the trees are gone. 

The woods of Autumn, all around our vale, 

Have put their glory on. 

The mountains that infold, 

In their wide sweep, the colored landscape round, 
Seem groups of giant kings, in purple and gold, 

That guard the enchanted ground. 

I roam the woods that crown 
The upland, where the mingled splendors glow, 
Where the gay company of trees look down 
On the green fields below. 

My steps are not alone 

In these bright walks ; the sweet south-west, at play 
Flies, rustling, where the painted leaves are strown 
Along the winding way. 

And far in heaven, the while, 

The sun, that sends that gale to wander here, 

Pours out on the fair earth his quiet smile, — 

The sweetest of the year. 

Where now the solemn shade, 

Verdure and gloom where many branches meet; 

So grateful, when the noon of summer made 
The valleys sick with heat ? 


76 


POEMS. 


Let in through all the trees 
Come the strange rays ; the forest depths are bright 
Their sunny-colored foliage, in the breeze. 

Twinkles, like beams of light. 

The rivulet, late unseen, 

Where bickering through the shrubs its waters run, 
Shines with the image of its golden screen 
And glimmerings of the sun. 

But ’neath yon crimson tree, 

Lover to listening maid might breathe his flame, 

Nor mark, within its roseate canopy, 

Her blush of maiden shame. 

Oh, Autumn ! why so soon 
Depart the hues that make thy forests glad, 

Thy gentle wind and thy fair sunny noon, 

And leave thee wild and sad 1 

Ah ! ’twere a lot too blest 
For ever in thy colored shades to stray ; 

Amid the kisses of the soft south-west 
To rove and dream for aye ; 

And leave the vain low strife 
That makes men mad — the tug for wealth and powei 
Ihe passions and the cares that wither life, 

And waste its little hour 


NOVEMBER. 


77 


MUTATION. 

They talk of short-lived pleasure — be it so — 

Pain dies as quickly : stern, hard-featured pain 
Expires, and lets her weary prisoner go. 

The fiercest agonies have shortest reign ; 

And after dreams of horror, comes again 
The welcome morning with its rays of peace. 

Oblivion, softly wiping out the stain, 

Makes the strong secret pangs of shame to cease : 
Remorse is virtue’s root ; its fair increase 
Are fruits of innocence and blessedness : 

Thus joy, o’erborne and bound, doth still release 
His young limbs from the chains that round him press. 
Weep not that the world changes — did it keep 
A. stable, changeless state, ’twere cause indeed to weep 


NOVEMBER. 

Vet one smile more, departing, distant sun! 

One mellow smile through the soft vapory air, 

Ere, o’er the frozen earth, the loud winds run, 

Or snows are sifted o’er the meadows bare. 

One smile on the brown hills and naked trees, 

And the dark rocks whose summer wreaths are cast. 
And the blue gentian flower, that, in the breeze, 
Nods lonely, of her beauteous race the last. 


78 


POEMS. 


Yet a few sunny days, in winch the bee 
Shall murmur by the hedge that skirts the way, 
The cricket chirp upon the russet lea, 

And man delight to linger in thy ray. 

Yet one rich smile, and we will try to bear 

The piercing winter frost, and winds, and darkened ail 


SONG OF THE GREEK AMAZON. 

I buckle to my slender side 
The pistol and the scimitar, 

And in my maiden flower and pride 
Am come to share the tasks of war. 

And yonder stands my fiery steed, 

That paws the ground and neighs to go 
My charger of the Arab breed, — 

I took him from the routed foe. 

My mirror is the mountain spring, 

At which I dress my ruffled hair ; 

My dimmed and dusty arms I bring, 

And wash away the blood-stain there. 
Why should I guard from wind and sun 
This cheek, whose virgin rose is fled I 
It was for one — oh, only one — 

I kept its bloom, and he is dead. 

But they who slew him — unaware 
Of coward murderers lurking nigh— 
And left him to the fowls of air, 

Are yet alive — and they must die. 


TO A. OLCUD. 


70 


They slew him — and my virgin years 
Are vowed to Greece and vengeance now, 
And many an Othman dame, in tears, 

Shall rue the Grecian maiden’s vow. 

I touched the lute in better days, 

I led in dance the joyous band ; 

Ah ! they may move to mirthful lays 
Whose hands can touch a lover’s hand 
The march of hosts that haste to meet 
Seems gayer than the dance to me ; 

The lute’s sweet tones are not so sweet 
As the fierce shout of victory. 


TO A CLOUT). 

Beautiful cloud ! with folds so soft ana fair, 
Swimming in the pure quiet air ! 

Thy fleeces bathed in sunlight, while below 
Thy shadow o’er the vale moves slow ; 

Where, midst their labor, pause the reaper train, 
As cool it comes along the grain. 

Beautiful cloud 1 I would I were with thee 
In thy calm way o’er land and sea : 

To rest on thy unrolling skirts, and look 
On Earth as on an open book ; 

On streams that tie her realms with silver bands, 
And the long ways that seam her lands ; 

And hear her humming cities, and the sound 
Of the great ocean breaking round. 

Ay — I would sail, upon thy air-borne car. 

To blooming regions distant far, 


80 


POEMS. 


To where the sun of Andalusia shines 
On his own olive-groves and vines, 

Or the soft lights of Italy’s clear sky 
In smiles upon her ruins lie. 

But I would woo the winds to let us rest 
O’er Greece long fettered and oppressed; 

Whose sons at length have heard the call that comes 
From the old battle-fields and tombs, 

And risen, and drawn the sword, and on the foe 
Have dealt the swift and desperate blow, 

And the Othman power is cloven, and the stroke 
Has touched its chains, and they are broke. 

Ay, we would linger, till the sunset there 
Should come, to purple all the air, 

And thou reflect upon the sadred ground 
The ruddy radiance streaming round. 

Bright meteor ! for the summer noontide made 1 
Thy peerless beauty yet shall fade. 

The sun, that fills with light each glistening fold, 
Shall set, and leave thee dark and cold : 

The blast shall rend thy skirts, or thou may’st frown 
In the dark heaven when storms come down ; 

And weep in rain, till man’s inquiring eye 
Miss thee, for ever, from the sky. 


THE MURDERED TRAVELLER. 

When spring, to woods and wastes around, 
Brought bloom and joy again, 

The murdered traveller’s bones were found, 
Far down a narrow glen. 


THE MUEDEKED TKAVELLEK. 


81 


The fragrant birch, above him, hung 
Her tassels in the sky ; 

And many a vernal blossom sprung, 

And nodded careless by. 

The red-bird warbled, as he wrought 
His hanging nest o’erhead, 

And fearless, near the fatal spot, 

Her young the partridge led. 

But there was weeping far away, 

And gentle eyes, for him, 

With watching many an anxious day, 

Were sorrowful and dim. 

They little knew, who loved him so, 

The fearful death he met, 

When shouting o’er the desert snow, 
Unarmed, and hard beset 

Nor how, when round the frosty pole 
The northern dawn was red, 

The mountain wolf and wild-cat stole 
To banquet on the dead ; — 

Nor how, when strangers found his bones, 
They dressed the hasty bier, 

And marked his grave with nameless stones, 
Unmoistened by a tear. 

But long they looked, and feared, and wept, 
Within his distant home ; 

And dreamed, and started as they slept, 

For joy that he was come. 

Long, long they looked — but never spied 
His welcome step again, 

Nor knew the fearful death he died 
Far down that narrow glen. 


82 


P0EM6. 


HYMN TO THE NORTH STAR. 

The sad and solemn niglit 
Hath yet her multitude of cheerful fires ; 

The glorious host of light 
Walk the dark hemisphere till she retires ; 

All through her silent watches, gliding slow, 

Her constellations come, and climb the heavens, and go 

Day, too, hath many a star 
To grace his gorgeous reign, as bright as they : 

Through the blue fields afar, 

Unseen, they follow in his flaming way : 

Many a bright lingerer, as the eve grows dim, 

Tells what a radiant troop arose and set with him. 

And thou dost see them rise, 

Star of the Pole 1 and thou dost see them set. 

Alone, in thy cold skies, 
fhou keep’st thy old unmoving station yet, 

Nor join’st the dances of that glittering train, 

Nor dipp’st thy virgin orb in the blue western main. 

• 

There, at morn’s rosy birth, 

Thou lookest meekly through the kindling air, 

And eve, that round the earth 
Chases the day, beholds thee watching there ; 
There noontide finds thee, and the hour that calls 
The shapes of polar flame to scale heaven’s azure walls. 

Alike, beneath thine eye, 

The deeds of darkness and of light are done ; 

High towards the star-lit sky 
Towns blaze, the smoke of battle blots the sun. 


THE LAPSE OF TIME. 


83 


The night-storm on a thousand hills is loud, 

And the strong wind of day doth mingle sea and cloud 

On thy unaltering blaze 
The half-wrecked mariner, his compass lost, 

Fixes his steady gaze, 

And steers, undoubting, to the friendly coast ; 

And they who stray in perilous wastes, by night, 

Are glad when thou dost shine to guide their foot 
steps right. 

And, therefore, bards of old, 

Sages and hermits of the solemn wood, 

Did in thy beams behold 
A beauteous type of that unchanging good, 

That bright eternal beacon, by whose ray 

The voyager of time should shape his heedful way. 


THE LAPSE OF TIME. 

Lament who will, in fruitless tears, 

The speed with which our moments fly ; 

I sigh not over vanished years, 

But watch the years that hasten by. 

Look, how they come, — a mingled crowd 
Of bright and dark, but rapid days ; 

Beneath them, like a summer cloud, 

The wide world changes as I gaze. 

What I grieve tha$ time has b.rought so soon 
The sober age of manhood on ! 

As idly might I weep, at noon, 

To see the blush of morning gone. 


P0EM8. 


Could I give up the hopes that glow 
In prospect like Elysian isles ; 

And let the cheerful future go, 

With all her promises and smiles ? 


The future ! — cruel were the power 

Whose doom would tear thee from my heart, 
Thou sweetener of the present hour ! 

We cannot — no — we will not part. 


Oh, leave me, still, the rapid flight 
That makes the changing seasons gay, 
The grateful speed that brings the night, 
The swift and glad return of day ; 

The months that touch, with added grace, 
This little prattler at my knee, 

In whose arch eye and speaking face 
New meaning every hour I see ; 


The years, that o’er each sister land 
Shall lift the country of my birth, 

And nurse her strength, till she shall stand 
The pride and pattern of the earth : 

Till younger commonwealths, for aid, 

Shall cling about her ample robe, 

And from her frown shall shrink afraid 
The crowned oppressors of the globe- 


True — time will seam and blanch my bro w 

Well — I shall sit with aged men, 

And my good giass will tell me how 
A grizzly beard becomes me then. 


SONG OF THE STARS. 


85 


And then, should no dishonor lie 
Upon my head, when I am gray, 

Love yet shall watch my fading eye, 
And smooth the path of my decay. 

Then haste thee, Time — ’tis kindness all 
That speeds thy winged feet so fast : 

Thy pleasures stay not till they pall, 
And all thy pains are quickly past. 

Thou fliest and bear’st away our woes. 
And as thy shadowy train depart, 

The memory of sorrow grows 
A lighter burden on the heart. 


SONG OF THE STARS. 

When the radiant morn of creation broke, 

And the world in the smile of God awoke, 

And the empty realms of darkness and death 
Were moved through their depths by his mightj 
breath, 

And orbs of beauty and spheres of flame 
From the void abyss by myriads came, — 

In the joy of youth as they darted away, 

Through the widening wastes of space to play, 
Their silver voices in chorus rang, 

And this was the song the bright ones sang : 

* Away, away, through the wide, wide sky, 

The fair blue fields that before us lie, — 

Each sun with the worlds that round him roll, 
Each planet, poised on her turning pole ; 

8 


86 


POEMS. 


With her isles of green, and her clouds of white. 
And her waters that lie like fluid light. 

* For the source of glory uncovers his face, 

And the brightness o’erflows unbounded space * 
And we drink as we go the luminous tides 
In our ruddy air and our blooming sides : 

Lo, yonder the living splendors play ; 

Away, on our joyous path, awayl 

« Look, look, through our glittering ranks afar, 

In the infinite azure, star after star, 

IIow they brighten and bloom as they swiftly pass 1 
How the verdure runs o’er each rolling mass 1 
And the path of the gentle winds is seen, 

Where the small waves dance, and the young woods 
lean. 

“ And see where the brighter day-beams pour, 

How the rainbows hang in the sunny shower ; 

And the morn and eve, with their pomp of hues, 
Shift o’er the bright planets and shed their dews ; 
And ’twixt them both, o’er the teeming ground, 
With her shadowy cone the night goes round 1 

“ Away, away ! in our blossoming bowers, 

In the soft air wrapping these spheres of ours, 

In the seas and fountains that shine with morn, 
See, Love is brooding, and Life is born, 

And breathing myriads are breaking from night, 
To rejoice, like us, in motion and light. 

Glide on in your beauty, ye youthful spheres, 

To weave the dance that measures the years ; 
Glide on, in the glory and gladness sent, 

To the furthest wall of the firmament, — 

The boundless visible smile of Him, 

To the veil of whose brow your lamps are dim.” 


A. FOREST HYMN. 


87 


A FOREST HYMN. 

The groves were God’s first temples. Ere man learned 
To hew the shaft, and lay the architrave, 

And spread the roof above them, — ere he framed 
The lofty vault, to gather and roll back 
The sound of anthems ; in the darkling wood, 

Amidst the cool and silence, he knelt down, 

And offered to the Mightiest solemn thanks 
And supplication. For his simple heart 
Might not resist the sacred influences 
Which, from the stilly twilight of the place, 

And from the gray old trunks that high in heaven 

Mingled their mossy boughs, and from the sound 

Of the invisible breath that swayed at once 

All their green tops, stole over him, and bowed 

His spirit with the thought of boundless power 

And inaccessible majesty. Ah, why 

Should we, in the world’s riper years, neglect 

God’s ancient sanctuaries, and adore 

Only among the crowd, and under roofs 

That our frail hands have raised ? Let me, at least, 

Here, in the shadow of this aged wood, 

Offer one hymn — thrice happy, if it find 
Acceptance in His ear. 


Father, thy hand 
Hath reared these venerable columns, thou 
Didst weave this verdant roofi Thou didst look down 
Upon the naked earth, and, forthwith, rose 
All these fair ranks of trees. They, in thy sun, 
Budded, and shook their green leaves in thy breeze, 
And shot towards heaven. The century-living crow 
Whose birth was in their tops, grew old and died 


88 


POEMS. 


Among their branches, till, at last, they stood. 

As now they stand, massy, and tall, and dark, 

Fit shrine for humble worshipper to hold 
Communion with his Maker. These dim vaults, 
These winding aisles, of human pomp or pride 
Keport not No fantastic carvings show 
The boast of our vain race to change the form 
Of thy fair works. But thou art here — thou fill’st. 
The solitude. Thou art in the soft winds 
That run along the summit of these trees 
In music ; thou art in the cooler breath 
That from the inmost darkness of the place 
Comes, scarcely felt ; the barky trunks, the ground, 
The fresh moist ground, are all instinct with thee. 
Here is continual worship ; — nature, here. 

In the tranquillity that thou dost love, 

Enjoys thy presence. Noiselessly, around, 

From perch to perch, the solitary bird 

Passes ; and yon clear spring, that, midst its herbs, 

Wells softly forth and wandering steeps the roots 

Of half the mighty forest, tells no tale 

Of all the good it does. Thou hast not left 

Thyself without a witness, in these shades, 

Of thy perfections. Grandeur, strength, and grace 
Are here to speak of thee. This mighty oak — 

By whose immovable stem I stand and seem 
Almost annihilated — not a prince, 

In all that proud old world beyond the deep, 

E’er wore his crown as loftily as he 
Wears the green coronal of leaves with which 
Thy hand has graced him. Nestled at his root 
Is beauty, such as blooms not in the glare 
Of the broad sun. That delicate forest flower 
With scented breath, and look so like a smile. 
Seems, as it issues from the shapeless mould, 

An emanation of the indwelling Life, 

A visible token of the upholding Love, 

That are the soul of this wide universe. 


A FOEESI HYMN. 


89 


My heart is awed within me when I think 
Of the great miracle that still goes on, 

In silence, round me — the perpetual work 
Of thy creation, finished, yet renewed 
For ever. Written on thy works I read 
The lesson of thy own eternity. 

Lo 1 all grow old and die — but see again, 
llow on the faltering footsteps of decay 
Youth, presses — ever gay and beautiful youth 
In all its beautiful forms. These lofty trees 
Wave not less proudly that their ancestors 
Moulder beneath them. Oh, there is not lost 
One of earth’s charms : upon her bosom yet, 

After the flight of untold centuries, 

The freshness of her far beginning lies 
And yet shall lie. Life mocks the idle hate 
Of his arch enemy Death — yea, seats himself 
Upon the tyrant’s throne — the sepulchre, 

And of the triumphs of his ghastly foe 
Makes his own nourishment. For he came forth 
From thine own bosom, and shall have no end. 

There have been holy men who hid themselves 
Deep in the woody wilderness, and gave 
Their lives to thought and prayer, till they outlived 
The generation born with them, nor seemed 
Less aged than the hoary trees and rocks 
Around them ; — and there have been holy men 
Who deemed it were not well to pass life thus. 

But l6t me often to these solitudes 
Retire, and in thy presence reassure 
My feeble virtue. Here its enemies, 

The passions, at thy plainer footsteps shrink 
And tremble and are still. Oh, God 1 when thou 
Dost scare the world with tempests, set on fire 
The heavens with falling thunderbolts, or fill, 

With all the waters of the firmament, 

The swift dark whirlwind that uproots the woods 


90 


POEMS. 


And drowns the villages ; when, at thy call, 
Uprises the great deep and throws himself 
Upon the continent, and overwhelms 
Its cities— pwho forgets not, at the sight 
Of these tremendous tokens of thy power, 

His pride, and lays his strifes and follies by ! 
Oh, from these sterner aspects of thy face 
Spare me and mine, nor let us need the wrath 
Of the mad unchained elements to teach 
Who rules them. Be it ours to meditate, 

In these calm shades, thy milder majesty, 

And to the beautiful order of thy works 
Learn to conform the order of our lives. 


« OH FAIREST OF THE RURAL MAIDS 

On fairest of the rural maids ! 

Thy birth was in the forest shades ; 

Green boughs, and glimpses of the sky, 
Were all that met thine infant eye. 

Thy sports, thy wanderings, when a child. 
W ere ever in the sylvan wild ; 

And all the beauty of the place 
Is in thy hearc and on thy face. 

The twilight of the trees and rocks 
Is in the light shade of thy locks ; 

Thy step is as the wind, that weaves 
Its playful way among the leaves. 


“l BKOKE THE SPELL THAT HELD ME LONG.” 91 

Thine eyes are springs, in whose serene 
And silent waters heayen is seen ; 

Their lashes are the herbs that look 
On their young figures in the brook. 

The forest depths, by foot unpressed, 

Are not more sinless than thy breast ; 

The holy peace, that fills the air 
Of those calm solitudes, is there. 


“ I BROKE THE SPELL THAT HELD ME LONG ” 

I broke the spell that held me long, 

The dear, dear witchery of song. 

I said, the poet’s idle lore 

Shall waste my prime of years no more, 

For Poetry, though heavenly born, 

Consorts with poverty and scorn 

I broke the spell — nor deemed its power 
Could fetter me another hour. 

Ah, thoughtless 1 how could I forget 
Its causes were around me yet ? 

For wheresoe’er I looked, the while, 

Was nature’s everlasting smile. 

Still came and lingered on my sight 
Of flowers and streams the bloom and light. 
And glory of the stars and sun ; — 

And these and poetry are one. 

They, ere the world had held me long. 
Recalled me to the love of song. 


02 


POEMS. 


JUNE. 

I gazed upon the glorious sky 

And the green mountains round ; 

And thought that when I came to lie 
At rest within the ground, 

’Twere pleasant, that in flowery June, 
When brooks send up a cheerful tune, 

And groves a joyous sound, 

The sexton’s hand, my grave to make, 

The rich, greeu mountain turf should break. 


A cell within the frozen mould, 

A coffin borne through sleet, 

And icy clods above it rolled, 

While fierce the tempests beat — 

Away ! — I will not think of these — 

Blue be the sky and soft the breeze, 

Earth green beneath the feet, 

And be the damp mould gently pressed 
Into my narrow place of rest. 

There through the long, long summer hours, 
The golden light should lie, 

And thick young herbs and groups of flowcra 
Stand in their beauty by. 

The oriole should build and tell 
His love-tale close beside my cell ; 

The idle butterfly 

Should rest him there, and there be heard 
The housewife bee and humming-bird. 


JUNE. 


98 


And what if cheerful shouts at noon 
Come, from the village sent. 

Or songs of maids, beneath the moon 
With fairy laughter blent? 

And what if, in the evening light, 
Betrothed lovers walk in sight 
Of my low monument ? 

I would the lovely scene around 
Might know no sadder sight nor sound. 

I know, I know I should not see 
The season’s glorious show, 

Nor would its brightness shine for me, 
Nor its wild music flow ; 

But if, around my place of sleep. 

The friends I love should come to weep. 
They might not haste to go. 

Soft airs, and song, and light, and bloom, 
Should keep them lingering by my tomb. 

These to their softened hearts should bear 
The thought of what has been, 

And speak of one who cannot share 
The gladness of the scene ; 

Whose part, in all the pomp that fills 
The circuit of the summer hills, 

Is — that his grave is green ; 

And deeply would their hearts rejoice 
To hear again his living voice. 


94 


POEMfl. 


A SONG OF PITCAIRN’S ISLAND. 

Come, take our boy, and we will go 
Before our cabin door ; 

The winds shall bring us, as they blow r 
The murmurs of the shore ; 

And we will kiss his young blue eyes, 
And I will sing him, as he lies, 

Songs that were made of yore : 

I’ll 6ing, in his delighted ear, 

The island lays thou lov’st to hear. 

And thou, while stammering I repeat. 
Thy country’s tongue shalt teach ; 
’Tis not so soft, but far more sweet 
Than my own native speech : 

For thou no other tongue didst know, 
When, scarcely twenty moons ago, 
Upon Tahete’s beach, 

Thou cam’st to woo me to be thine, 
With many a speaking look and sign. 


I knew thy meaning — thou didst praise 
My eyes, my locks of jet ; 

Ah 1 well for me they won thy gaze, — 
But thine were fairer yet ! 

I’m glad to see my infant wear 
Thy soft blue eyes and sunny hair, 

And when my sight is met 
By his white brow and blooming cheek, 
I feel a joy I cannot speak. 


THE FIRMAMENT. 


95 


Come talk of Europe’s maids with me, 
Whose necks and cheeks, they tell. 
Outshine the beauty of the sea, 

White foam and crimson shell. 

I’ll shape like theirs my simple dress, 
And bind like them each jetty tress, 

A sight to please thee well : 

And for my dusky brow will braid 
A bonnet like an English maid. 

Come, for the soft low sunlight calls, 
We lose the pleasant hours ; 

’Tis lovelier than these cottage walls,— 
That seat among the flowers. 

And I will learn of thee a prayer, 

To Him who gave a home so fair, 

A lot so blest as ours— 

The God who made, for thee and me, 
This sweet lone isle amid the sea. 


THE FIRMAMENT. 

Ay! gloriously thou standest there, 
Beautiful, boundless firmament ! 

That, swelling wide o’er earth and air, 
And round the horizon bent, 

With thy bright vault, and sapphire wall, 
Dost overhang and circle all. 

Far, far below thee, tall gray trees 
Arise, and piles built up of old, 

And hills, whose ancient summits freeze 
In the fierce light and cold. 


96 


POEMS. 


The eagle soars his utmost height, 

Yet far thou stretchest o’er his flight. 

Thou hast thy frowns — with thee on high 
The storm has made his airy seat, 

Beyond that soft blue curtain lie 
His stores of hail and sleet 
Thence the consuming lightnings break, 

There the strong hurricanes awake. 

Yet art thou prodigal of smiles — 

Smiles, sweeter than thy frowns are stern 
Earth sends, from all her thousand isles, 

A shout at their return. 

The glory that comes down from thee, 

Bathes, in deep joy, the land and sea. 

The sun, the gorgeous sun is thine, 

The pomp that brings and shuts the day, 
The clouds that round him change and shine, 
The airs that fan his way. 

Thence look the thoughtful stars, and there 
The meek moon walks the silent air. 

The sunny Italy may boast 

The beauteous tints that flush her skies, 
And lovely, round the Grecian coast, 

May thy blue pillars rise. 

I only know how fair they stand 
Around my own beloved land. 

And they are fair — a charm is theirs, 

That earth, the proud green earth, has not— 
With all the forms, and hues, and airs, 

That haunt her sweetest spot. 

We gaze upon thy calm pure sphere, 

And read of Heaven’s eternal year. 


97 


; ‘l CANNOT FORGET.” 

Oh, when, amid the throng of men, 

The heart grows sick of hollow mirth. 
How willingly we turn us then 
Away from this cold earth, 

And look into thy azure breast. 

For seats of innocence and rest I 


'• I CANNOT FORGET WITH WHAT FERVID 
DEVOTION. ’ 

( cannot forget with what fervid devotion 
I worshipped the visions of verse and of fame : 
Each gaze at the glories of earth, sky, and ocean, 

To my kindled emotions, was wind over flame. 

And deep were my musings in life’s early blossom, 
Mid the twilight of mountain groves wandering 
long; 

How thrilled my young veins, and how throbbed my 
full bosom, 

When o’er me descended the spirit of song. 

v Mong the deep-cloven fells that for ages had listened 
To the rush of the pebble-paved river between, 
Where the kingfisher screamed and gray precipice 
glistened, 

All breathless with awe have I gazed on the scene; 

Till I felt the dark power o’er my reveries stealing, 
From the gloom of the thickets that over me hung, 
And the thoughts that awoke, in that rapture of feeling, 
Were formed into verse as they rose to my tongue. 
9 


98 


POEMS. 


Bright visions ! I mixed with the wor!;? , and ye faded 
No longer your pure rural worshipper now ; 

In the haunts your continual presence pervaded, 

Ye shrink from the signet of care on my brow. 

In the old mossy groves on the breast of the mountain 
In deep lonely glens where the waters complain, 

By the shade of the rock, by the gush of the fountain 
I seek your loved footsteps, but seek them in vain 

Oh, leave not, forlorn and for ever forsaken, 

Your pupil and victim to life and its tears ! 

But sometimes return, and in mercy awaken 
The glories ye showed to his earlier years. 


TO A MUSQUITO. 

Fair insect! that, with threadlike legs spread out, 
And blood-extracting bill and filmy wing, 

Does murmur, as thou slowly sail’st about, 

In pitiless ears full many a plaintive thing, 

And tell how little our large veins would bleed, 
Would we but yield them to thy bitter need. 

Unwillingly, I own, and, what is worse, 

Full angrily men hearken to thy plaint ; 

Thou gettest many a brush, and many a curse, 

For saying thou art gaunt, and starved, and faint 
Even the old beggar, while he asks for food, 

Would kill thee, hapless stranger, if he could. 


TO A MUSQUITO. 


99 


* call thee stranger, for the town, I ween, 

Has not the honor of so proud a birth, — 

Thou com’st from Jersey meadows, fresh and green, 
The offspring of the gods, though born on earth , 
For Titan was thy sire, and fair was she, 

The ocean nymph that nursed thy infancy. 


Beneath the rushes was thy cradle swung, 

And when at length thy gauzy wings grew strong. 
Abroad to gentle airs their folds were flung, 

Rose in the sky and bore thee soft along ; 

The south wind breathed to waft thee on thy way. 
And danced and shone beneath the billowy bay. 


Calm rose afar the city spires, and thence 
Came the deep murmur of its throng of men, 
And as its grateful odors met thy sense, 

They seemed the perfumes of thy native fen. 
Fair lay its crowded streets, and at the sight 
Thy tiny song grew shriller with delight. 


At length thy pinions fluttered in Broadway — 

Ah, there were fairy steps, and white necks kissed 
By wanton airs, and eyes whose killing ray 

Shone through the snowy veils like stars through 
mist; 

And fresh as morn, on many a cheek and chin, 
Bloomed the bright blood through the transparent 
skin. 


Sure these were sights to touch an anchorite ! 

What ! do I hear thy slender voice complain I 
Thou wailest, when I talk of beauty’s light, 

As if it brought the memory of pain : 

Thou art a wayward being — well — come near, 
And pour thy tale of sorrow in my ear. 


100 


POEMS. 


Wh & t sayst thou— slanderer !— rouge makes thee sick I 
And China bloom at best is sorry food ? 

And Rowland’s Kalydor, if laid on thick, 

Poisons the thirsty wretch that bores for blood ? 
Gol ’twas a just reward that met thy crime— 

But shun the sacrilege another time. 

That bloom was made to look at, not to touch • 

To worship, not approach, that radiant white; 

And j might sudden vengeance light on such 
As dared, like thee, most impiously to bite. 

Thou shouldst have gazed at distance and admired 
Murmured thy adoration and retired. 


Thorfrt welcome to the town— hut why come here 
To bleed a brother poet, gaunt like thee? 

Alas I the. little blood I have is dear, 

And thin will be the banquet drawn from me. 
Look round— the pale-eyed sisters in my cell, 

Ihy old acquaintance, Song and Famine, dwell. 


Try some plump alderman, and suck the blood 
Enriched by generous wine and costly meat ; 

On well-filled skins, sleek as thy native mud 
Fix thy light pump and press thy freckled feet 
Co to. the men for whom, in ocean’s halls, 

I he oyster breeds, and the green turtle sprawls 

T *m re m? 4 u S are & awn ’ and the red ™tage flows 
1° fill the swelling veins for thee, and now 

the ruddy cheek and now the ruddier nose 
Shall tempt thee, as thou flittest round the brow 
And when the hour of sleep its quiet brings, 

No angry hand shall rise to brush thy wings. 


LINES ON BEYISITING THE OOGNTBY. 1Q1 


LINES ON REVISITING THE COUNTRY. 

I stand upon my native hills again, 

Broad, round, and green, that in the summer skj 
With garniture of waving grass and grain, 
Orchards, and beechen forests, basking lie, 

While deep the sunless glens are scooped between, 
Where brawl o’er shallow beds the streams unseen 

A lisping voice and glancing eyes are near, 

And ever restless feet of one, who, now, 

Gathers the blossoms of her fourth bright year , 
There plays a gladness o’er her fair young brow, 
As breaks the varied scene upon her sight, 
Upheaved and spread in verdure and in light. 

For I have taught her, with delighted eye, 

To gaze upon the mountains, — to behold, 

With deep affection, the pure ample sky, 

And clouds along its blue abysses rolled, — 

To love the song of waters, and to hear 
The melody of winds with charmed ear. 

Here, I have ’scaped the city’s stifling heat, 

Its horrid sounds, and its polluted air ; 

And, where the season’s milder fervors beat, 

And gales, that sweep the forest borders, bear 
The song of bird, and sound of running stream. 

Am come awhile to wander and to dream. 

Ay, flame Uiy fiercest, sun ! thou canst not wake, 

In this pure air, the plague that walks unseen. 
The maize leaf and the maple bough but take. 

From thy strong heats, a deeper, glossier green. 


102 


POEMS. 


The mountain wind, that faints not in thy ray, 
Sweeps the blue steams of pestilence away. 

The mountain wind ! most spiritual thing of all 
The wide earth knows ; when, in the sultry time, 
He stoops him from his vast cerulean hall, 

He seems the breath of a celestial clime 1 
As if from heaven’s wide-open gates did flow 
Health and refreshment on the world below. 


THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. 

The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, 

Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows 
brown and sere. 

Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the autumn leaves 
lie dead ; 

They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit’s tread. 

The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs 
the jay, 

And from the wood-top calls the crow through all the 
gloomy day. 

Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that 
lately sprang and stood 

In brighter light, and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood' 

Alasl they all are in their graves, the gentle race of 
flowers 

Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good 
of ours. 

The rain is falling where they lie, but the cold No- 
vember rain 

Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones 
again. 


THE DEATH OP THE FLOWERS. 103 

The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long 
ago, 

And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the sum- 
mer glow ; 

But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the 
wood, 

And the yellow sun-flower by the bi'ook in autumn 
beauty stood, 

Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls 
the plague on men, 

And the brightness of their smile was gone, from up- 
land, glade, and glen. 

And now, when comes the calm mild day, as still such 
days will come, 

To call' the squirrel and the bee from out their winter 
home; 

When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though 
all the trees are still, 

And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill, 

The south wind searches for the flowers whose fra- 
grance late he bore, 

And sighs to find them in the wood and by the 
stream no more. 

And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty 
died, 

The fair meek blossom that grew up and faded by my 
side: 

In the cold moist earth we laid her, when the forest 
cast the leaf, 

And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so 
brief : 

Tet not xinmeet it was that one, like that young friend 
of ours, 

Sc gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the 
flowers. 


104 


POEMS. 


ROMERO. 

When freedom, from the land of Spain, 
By Spain’s degenerate sons was drivcn $ 
Who gave their willing limbs again 
To wear the chain so lately riven ; 
Romero broke the sword he wore — 

“ Go, faithful brand,” the warrior said, 

« Go, undishonored, never more 

The blood of man shall make thee red * 
1 grieve for that already shed ; 

And I am sick at heart to know, 

That faithful friend and noble foe 
Have only bled to make more strong 
The yoke that Spain has worn so long. 
Wear it who will, in abject fear — 

I wear it not who have been free ; 

The perjured Ferdinand shall hear 
No oath of loyalty from me.” 

Then, hunted by the hounds of power, 
Romero chose a safe retreat, 

Where bleak Nevada’s summits tower 
Above the beauty at their feet 
There once, when on his cabin lay 
The crimson light of setting day, 

When even on the mountain’s breast 
The chainless winds were all at rest, 

And he could hear the river’s flow 
From the calm paradise below ; 

Warmed with his former fires again, 

He framed this rude but solemn strain ; 


ROMERO. 


105 


L 

“ Here will I make my home — for here at least I see, 

Upon this wild Sierra’s side, the steps of Liberty; 

Where the locust chirps unscared beneath the un 
pruned lime, 

And the merry bee doth hide from man the spoil of 
the mountain thyme ; 

Where the pure winds come and go, and the wild 
vine strays at will, 

An outcast from the haunts of men, she dwells with 
Nature still. 


n. 

“ I see the valleys, Spain I where thy mighty rivers 
run, 

And the hills that lift thy harvests and vineyards to 
the sun, 

And the flocks that drink thy brooks and sprinkle all 
the green, 

Where lie thy plains, with sheep-walks seamed, and 
olive-shades between : 

I see thy fig-trees bask, with the fair pomegranate 
near, 

And the fragrance of thy lemon-groves can almost 
reach me here. 


m. 

' Fair — fair — but fallen Spain ! ’tis with a swelling 
heart, 

That I think on all thou mightst have been, and look 
at what thou art ; 

But the strife is over now, and all the good and brave, 

That would have raised thee up, are gone, to exile or 
the grave. 

Thy fleeces are for monks, thy grapes for the convent 
feast, 

And the wealth of all thy harvest-fields for the pam 
pered lord and priest. 


106 


POEMS. 


IV. 

“ But I shall see the day — it will come before 1 
die— 

I shall see it in my silver hairs, and with an age- 
dimmed eye ; — 

When the spirit of the land to liberty shall bound, 

As yonder fountain leaps away from the darkness of 
the ground : 

And to my mountain cell, the voices of the free 

Shall rise, as from the beaten shore the thunders of 
the sea.” 


A MEDITATION ON RIIODE-ISLAND COAL. 


Decolor, obscurus, vilis, non ille repexam 
Cesariem regum, non Candida Virginia ornat 
Colla, nec insigni splendet per cingula moraa. 

Sed nova si nigri videas miracula aaxi, 

Tune superat pulchroa cultus et quicquid Eois 
Indus litoribus rubra scrutatur in alga. 

Claodian. 

I sat beside the glowing grate, fresh heaped 

With Newport coal, and as the flame grew bright 
— The many-colored flame — and played and leaped, 
I thought of rainbows and the northern light, 
Moore’s Lalla Rookli, the Treasury Report, 

And other brilliant matters of the sort. 

And last I thought of that fair isle which sent 
The mineral fuel ; on a summer day 
I saw it once, with heat and travel spent, 

And scratched by dwarf-oaks in the hollow way , 
Now dragged through sand, now jolted over stone — 
A rugged road through rugged Tiverton. 


A MEDITATION ON COAL. 


107 


And hotter grew the air, and hollower grew 
The deep-worn path, and horror-struck, I though^ 
Where will this dreary passage lead me to ? 

This long dull road, so narrow, deep, and hot ? 

I looked to see it dive in earth outright ; 

I looked — but saw a far more welcome sight. 

Like a soft mist upon the evening shore, 

At once a lovely isle before me lay, 

Smooth and with tender verdure covered o’er, 

As if just risen from its calm inland bay; 

Sloped each way gently to the grassy edge, 

And the small waves that dallied with the sedge. 

The barley was just reaped — its heavy sheaves 
Lay. on the stubble field — the tall maize stood 
Dark in its summer growth, and shook its leaves — 
And bright the sunlight played on the young wood— 
For fifty years ago, the old men say, 

The Briton hewed their ancient groves away. 

I saw where fountains freshened the green land, 

And where the pleasant road, from door to door, 
With rows of cherry-trees on either hand, 

Went wandering all that fertile region o’er— 
Rogue’s Island once — but when the rogues were dead 
Rhode Island was the name it took instead. 

Beautiful island ! then it only seemed 
A lovely stranger — it has grown a friend. 

I gazed on its smooth slopes, but never dreamed 
How soon that green and quiet isle would send 
The treasures of its womb across the sea, 

To warm a poet’s room and boil his tea. 

Dark anthracite I that reddenest on my hearth, 

Thou in those island mines didst slumber long ; 

But now thou art come forth to move the earth, 

And put to shame the men that mean thee wrong 


108 


POEMS. 


Thou shalt be coals of fire to those that hate thee, 
And warm the shins of all that underrate thee. 

Yea, they did wrong thee foully — they who mocked 
Thy honest face, and said thou wouldst not burn ; 
Of hewing thee to chimney-pieces talked, 

And grew profane — and swore, in bitter scorn, 
That men might to thy inner caves retire, 

And there, unsinged, abide the day of fire. 

Yet is thy greatness nigh. I pause to state, 

That I too have seen greatness — even I — 

Shook hands with Adams — stared at La Fayette, 
When, barehead, in the hot noon of July, 

He would not let the umbrella be held o’er him, 

For which three cheers burst from the mob before him, 

And I have seen — not many months ago — 

An eastern Governor in chapeau bras 
And military coat, a glorious show ! 

Ride forth to visit the reviews, and ah ! 

How oft he smiled and bowed to Jonathan ! 

How many hands were shook and votes were won 

*Twas a great Governor — thou too shalt be 

Great in thy turn — and wide shall spread thy fame, 
And swiftly ; furthest Maine shall hear of thee, 

And cold New Brunswick gladden at thy name. 
And, faintly through its sleets, the weeping isle 
That sends the Boston folks their cod shall smile. 

For thou shalt forge vast railways, and shalt heat 
The hissing rivers into steam, and drive 
Huge masses from thy mines, on iron feet, 

Walking their steady way, as if alive, 

Northward, till everlasting ice besets thee, 

And south as far as the grim Spaniard lets thee. 


THE NEW MOON. 


Thou shalt make mighty engines swim the sea, 
Like its own monsters — boats that for a guinea 
Will take a man to Havre — and shalt be 
The moving soul of many a spinning-jenny. 
And ply thy shuttles, till a bard can wea»* 

As good a suit of broadcloth as the mayor 

Then we will laugh at winter when we hear 
The grim old churl about our dwellings rave : 
Thou, from that “ ruler of the inverted year,” 
Shalt pluck the knotty sceptre Cowper gave, 
And pull him from his sledge, and drag him in, 
And melt the icicles from olf his chin. 


THE NEW MOON. 

When, as the garish day is done, 

Heaven burns with the descended sun, 
’Tis passing sweet to mark, 

Amid that flush of crimson light, 

The new moon’s modest bow grow bright, 
As earth and sky grow dark. 

Few are the hearts too cold to feel 
A thrill of gladness o’er them steal. 

When first the wandering eye 
Sees faintly, in the evening blaze, 

That glimmering curve of tender rays 
Just planted in the sky. 

The sight of that young crescent brings 
Thoughts of all fair and youthful things— 
The hopes of early years ; 


no 


POEMS. 


And childhood’s purity and grace, 

And joys that like a rainbow chaae 
The passing shower of tears. 

The captive yields him to the dream 
Of freedom, when that virgin beam 
Comes out upon the air : 

And painfully the sick man tries 
To fix his dim and burning eyes 
On the soft promise there. 

Most welcome to the lover’s sight, 
Glitters that pure, emerging light ; 

For prattling poets say, 

That sweetest is the lovers’ walk, 

And tenderest is their murmured talk. 
Beneath its gentle ray. 

And there do graver men behold 
A type of errors, loved of old, 
Forsaken and forgiven ; 

And thoughts and wishes not of earth. 
Just opening in their early birth, 

Like that new light in heaven. 


OCTOBER. 

4f , thou art welcome, heaven’s delicious breath, 
When woods begin to wear the crimson leaf, 

And suns grow meek, and the meek suns growbriet 
Aaid the year smiles as it draws near its death. 


THE DAMSEL OF PEED. 


Ill 


Wind of the sunny south! oh, still delay 
In the gay woods and in the golden air, 

Like to a good old age released from care, 
Journeying, in long serenity, away. 

In such a bright, late quiet, would that I 
Might wear out life like thee, mid bowers and brooks. 
And, dearer yet, the sunshine of kind looks. 

And music of kind voices ever nigh ; 

And when my last sand twinkled in the glass, 

Pass silently from men, as thou dost pass. 


THE DAMSEL OF PERU. 

Where olive leaves were twinkling in every wind 
that blew, 

There sat beneath the pleasant shade a damsel of Peru. 

Betwixt the slender boughs, as they opened to the air, 

Came glimpses of her ivory neck and of her glossy hair ; 

And sweetly rang her silver voice, within that shady 
nook, 

As from the shrubby glen is heard the sound of hid- 
den brook. 

Tis a song of love and valor, in the noble Spanish 
tongue, 

That once upon the sunny plains of old Castile was 
sung ; 

When, from their mountain holds, on the Moorish rout 
below, 

Had rushed the Christians like a flood, and swept 
away the foe. 

Awhile that melody is still, and then breaks forth anew 

A wilder rhyme, a livelier note, of freedom and Peru. 


112 


POEMS. 


For she has bound the sword to a youthful lover’s 
side, 

And sent him to the war the day she should have 
been his bride, 

And bade him bear a faithful heart to battle for the 
right, 

And held the fountains of her eyes till he was out of 
sight. 

Since the parting kiss was given, six weary months 
are fled, 

And yet the foe is in the land, and blood must vet be 
shed. J 


A white hand parts the branches, a lovely face looks 
forth, 

And bright dark eyes gaze steadfastly and sadly to- 
ward the north. 

Thou lookst in vain / sweet maiden, the sharpest sight 
would fail 

To spy a sign of human life abroad in all the vale ; 

For the noon is coming on, and the sunbeams fiercely 
beat, J 

And the silent hills and forest-tops seem reeling in the 
heat. 

That white hand is withdrawn, that fair sad face is 
gone,. 

But the music of that silver voice is flowing sweetly on, 

Not as of late, in cheerful tones, but mournfully and 

A ballad of a tender maid heart-broken long ago, 

Of him who died in battle, the youthful and the brave, 

And her who died of sorrow, upon his early grave. ‘ 

But see, along that mountain slope, a fiery horseman 
ride ; 

Mark his torn plume, his tarnished belt, the sabre at 
his side. 


THE AFKIOAN CHIEF. 


113 


His spurs are buried rowel-deep, be rides with loosen- 
ed rein, 

There’s blood upon his charger’s flank and foam upon 
the mane ; 

He speeds him toward the olive-grove, along that 
shaded hill : 

God shield the helpless maiden there, if he should 
mean her ill I 

And suddenly that song has ceased, and suddenly I 
hear 

A shriek sent up amid the shade, a shriek — but not 
of fear. 

For tender accents follow, and tenderer pauses speak 

The overflow of gladness, when words are all too weak : 

‘ I lay my good sword at thy feet, for now Peru is free, 

And I am come to dwell beside the olive-grove with 
thee.” 


THE AFRICAN CHIEF. 

Chained in the market-place he stood. 

A man of giant frame, 

Amid the gathering multitude 
That shrank to hear his name — 

All stern of look and strong of limb, 

Ilis dark eye on the ground : — 

And silently they gazed on him, 

As on a lion bound. 

Vainly, but well, that chief had fought, 
He was a captive now, 

Yet pride, that fortune humbles not, 
Was written on his brow. 


POEMS. 


The scars his dark broad bosom wore. 
Showed warrior true and brave ; 

A prince among his tribe before, 

He could not be a slave. 

Then to his conqueror he spake — 

“ My brother is a king ; 

Undo this necklace from my neck, 

And take this bracelet ring, 

And send me where my brother reigns, 
And I will fill thy hands 

With store of ivory from the plains, 
And gold-dust from the sands.” 

u Not for thy ivory nor thy gold 
Will I unbind thy chain ; 

That bloody hand shall never hold 
The battle-spear again. 

A price thy nation never gave 
Shall yet be paid for thee ; 

For thou shalt be the Christian’s slave. 
In lands beyond the sea.” 


Then wept the warrior chief, and bade 
To shred his locks away ; 

And one by one, each heavy braid 
Before the victor lay. 

Thick were the platted locks, and long. 

And closely hidden there 
Shone many a wedge of gold among 
The dark and crisped hair. 


“ Look, feast thy greedy eye with gold 
Long kept for sorest need : 

Take it — thou askest sums untold. 
And say that I am freed. 


SPEING IN TOWN. 


115 


Take it— my wife, the long, long day, 
Weeps by the cocoa-tree, 

And my young children leave their play. 
And ask in vain for me.” 

“ I take thy gold — but I have made 
Thy fetters fast and strong, 

And ween that by the cocoa shade 
Thy wife will wait thee long.” 

Strong was the agony that shook 
The captive’s frame to hear, 

And the proud meaning of his look 
Was changed to mortal fear. 

His heart was broken — crazed his brain : 

At once his eye grew wild ; 

He struggled fiercely with his chain, 
Whispered, and wept, and smiled ; 

Yet wore not long those fatal bands, 

And once, at shut of day, 

They drew him forth upon the sands. 
The foul hyena’s prey. 


SPRING IN TOWN. 

The countiy ever has a lagging Spring, 

Waiting for May to call its violets forth, 

And June its roses — showers and sunshine bring, 
Slowly, the deepening verdure o’er the earth ; 
To put their foliage out, the woods are slack, 
A.nd one by one the singing-birds come back. 


no 


POEMS. 


Within the city’s bounds the time of flowers 
Comes earlier. Let a mild and sunny day, 

Such as full often, for a few bright hours, 

Breathes through the sky of March the airs of 
May, 

Shine on our roofs and chase the wintry gloom— 

And lo 1 our borders glow with sudden bloom. 

For the wide sidewalks of Broadway are then 
Gorgeous as are a rivulet’s banks in June, 

That overhung with blossoms, through its glen, 

Slides soft awhy beneath the sunny noon, 

And they who seafch the untrodden wood for flowers: 
Meet in its depths no lovelier ones than ours. 

For here are eyes that shame the violet, 

Or the dark drop that on the pansy lies, 

And foreheads, white, as when in clusters set, 

The anemones by forest mountains rise ; 

And the spring-beauty boasts no tenderer streak 
Than the soft red on many a youthful cheek. 

And thick about those lovely temples lie 

Locks that the lucky Vignardonne has curled, 
Thrice happy man whose trade it is to buy, 

And bake, and braid those love-knots of the world ; 
Who curls of every glossy color keepest, 

And sellest, it is said, the blackest cheapest. 

And well thou mayst — for Italy’s brown maids 
Send the dark locks with which their brows are 
dressed, 

And Gascon lasses, from their jetty braids, 

Crop half, to buy a riband for the rest ; 

But the fresh Norman girls their tresses spare, 

And the Dutch damsel keeps her flaxen hair. 


THE GLADNESS OF NATUKE. 


117 


Then, henceforth, let no maid nor matron grieve, 

To see her locks of an unlovely hue, 

Frouzy or thin, for liberal art shall give 
Such piles of curls as nature never knew. 

Eve, with her veil of tresses, at the sight 

Had blushed, outdone, and owned herself a fright. 

Soft voices and light laughter wake the street, 

Like notes of woodbirds, and where’er the eye 
Threads the long way, plumes wave, and twinkling feet 
Fall light, as hastes that crowd of beauty by. 

The ostrich, hurrying o’er the desert space, 

Scarce bore those tossing plumes with fleeter pace. 

No swimming Juno gait, of languor born, 

Is theirs, but a light step of freest grace 
Light as Camilla’s o’er the unbent corn, — 

A step that speaks the spirit of the place, 

Since Quiet, meek old dame, was driven away 
To Sing Sing and the shores of Tappan bay. 

Ye that dash by in chariots ! who will care 
For steeds or footmen now ? ye cannot show 
Fair face, and dazzling dress, and graceful air, 

And last edition of the shape 1 Ah, no, 

These sights are for the earth and open sky, 

And your loud wheels unheeded rattle by. 


THE GLADNESS OF NATURE, 

Is this a time to be cloudy and sad, 

When our mother Nature laughs around ; 

When even the deep blue heavens look glad, 

And gladness breathes from the blossoming ground 


118 


POEMS. 


There are now of joy from the hang-bird and wren. 

And the gossip of swallows through all the sky; 
The ground-squirrel gayly chirps by his den, 

And the wilding bee hums merrily by. 

The clouds are at play in the azure space, 

And their shadows at play on the bright green vale, 
And here they stretch to the frolic chase, 

And there they roll on the easy gale. 

There’s a dance of leaves in that aspen bower. 
There’s a titter of winds in that beechen tree, 
There’s a smile on the fruit, and a smile on the flowei 
And a laugh from the brook that runs to the sea. 

And look at the broad-faced sun, how he smiles 
On the dewy earth that smiles in his ray, 

On the leaping waters and gay young isles ; 

Ay, look, and he’ll smile thy gloom away. 


THE DISINTERRED WARRIOR. 

Gather him to his grave again, 

And solemnly and softly lay, 

Beneath the verdure of the plain, 

The warrior’s scattered bones away. 

Pay the deep reverence, taught of old. 

The homage of man’s heart to death ; 

Nor dare to trifle with the mould 

Once hallowed by the Almighty’s breath. 

The soul hath quickened every part — 

That remnant of a martial brow, 

Those ribs that held the mighty heart. 

That strong arm — strong no longer now. 


THE DISINTERRED WARRIOR. 


119 


Spare them, each mouldering relic spare, 
Of God’s own image ; let them rest. 
Till not a trace shall speak of where 
The awful likeness was impressed. 

For he was fresher from the hand 
That formed of earth the human face, 
And to the elements did stand 
In nearer kindred than our race. 

In many a flood to madness tossed, 

In many a storm has been his path ; 
He hid him not from heat or frost, 

But met them, and defied their wrath. 

Then they were kind — the forests here, 
Rivers, and stiller waters, paid 
A tribute to the net and spear 
Of the red ruler of the shade. 

Fruits on the woodland branches lay, 
Roots in the shaded soil below, 

The stars looked forth to teach his way, 
The still earth warned him of the foe. 

A noble race ! but they are gone, 

With their old forests wide and deep, 
And we have built our homes upon 
Fields where their generations sleep. 
Their fountains slake our thirst at noon, 
Upon their fields our harvest waves, 
Our lovers woo beneath their moon — 
Then let us spare, at least, their graves 


20 


POEMS 


MIDSUMMER. 

• 

A power is on the earth and in the air 
From which the vital spirit shrinks afraid, 

And shelters him, in nooks of deepest shade, 
From the hot steam and from the fiery glare. 

Look forth upon the earth — her thousand plants 
Are smitten ; even the dark sun-loving maize 
Faints in the field beneath the torrid blaze ; 

The herd beside the shaded fountain pants ; 

For life is driven from all the landscape brown ; 
The bird has sought his tree, the snake his den, 
The trout floats dead in the hot stream, and mec 
Drop by the sun-stroke in the populous town: 

As if the Day of Fire had dawned, and sent 
Its deadly breath into the firmament. 


THE GREEK PARTISAN. 

Our free flag is dancing 
In the free mountain air, 

And burnished arms are glancing, 

And warriors gathering there ; 

And fearless is the little train 
Whose gallant bosoms shield it; 

The blood that warms their hearts shall stain 
That banner, ere they yield it. 


THE GREEK PARTISAN. 


121 


—Each dark eye is fixed on earth, 

And brief each solemn greeting ; 

There is no look nor sound of mirth, 
Where those stern men are meeting. 

They go to the slaughter 
To strike the sudden blow. 

And pour on earth, like water, 

The best blood of the foe ; 

To rush on them from rock and height, 
And clear the narrow valley, 

Or fire their camp at dead of night, 

And fly before they rally. 

— Chains are round our country pressed, 
And cowards have betrayed her, 

And we must make her bleeding breast 
The grave of the invader. 

Not till from her fetters 
We raise up Greece again, 

And write, in bloody letters. 

That tyranny is slain, — 

Oh, not till then the smile shall steal 
Across those darkened faces, 

Nor one of all those warriors feel 
Ilis children’s dear embraces. 

—Reap we not the ripened wheat, 

Till yonder hosts are flying, 

And all their bravest, at our feet, 

Like autumn sheaves are lying 


11 


122 


POEMS. 


THE TWO GRAVES. 

’Tis a bleak wild hill, but green and bright 
Id. the summer warmth and the mid-day light ; 
There’s the hum of the bee and the chirp of the wren, 
And the dash of the brook from the alder glen ; 
There’s the sound of a bell from the scattered flock, 
And the shade of the beech lies cool on the rock, 
And fresh from the west is the free wind’s breath, — 
There is nothing here that speaks of death. 

Far yonder, where orchards and gardens lie. 

And dwellings cluster, ’tis there men die. 

They are born, they die, and are buried near, 

Where the populous grave-yard lightens the bier ; 
For strict and close are the ties that bind 
In death the children of human-kind ; 

Yea, stricter and closer than those of life, — 

’Tis a neighborhood that knows no strife. 

They are noiselessly gathered — friend and foe 

To the still and dark assemblies below ; 

Without a frown or a smile they meet, 

Each pale and calm in his winding-sheet ; 

In that sullen home of peace and gloom, 

Crowded, like guests in a banquet-room. 

Yet there are graves in this lonely spot, 

Two humble graves,— but I meet them not. 

I have seen them, — eighteen years are past, 

Since I found their place in the brambles last, 

The place where, fifty winters ago. 

An aged man in his locks of snow, 

And an aged matron, withered with years, 

Were solemnly laid! — but not with tears. 


THE TWO GKAVES. 


123 


For none, who sat by the light of their hearth, 
Beheld their coffins covered with earth ; 

Their kindred were far, and their children dead, 
When the funeral prayer was coldly said. 

Two low green hillocks, two small gray stones, 
Rose over the place that held their bones ; 

But the grassy hillocks are levelled again, 

And the keenest eye might search in vain, 

'Mong briers, and ferns, and paths of sheep, 

For the spot where the aged couple sleep 

Yet well might they lay, beneath the soil 
Of this lonely spot, that man of toil, 

And trench the strong hard mould with the spade, 
Where never before a grave was made ; 

For he hewed the dark old woods away, 

And gave the virgin fields to the day ; 

And the gourd and the bean, beside his door, 
Bloomed where their flowers ne’er opened before ; 
And the maize stood up, and the bearded rye 
Bent low in the breath of an unknown sky. 

’Tis said that when life is ended here. 

The spirit is borne to a distant sphere ; 

That it visits its earthly home no more, 

Nor looks on the haunts it loved before. 

But why should the bodiless soul be sent 
Far off, to a long, long banishment i 
Talk not of the light and the living green I 
It will pine for the dear familiar scene ; 

It will yearn, in that strange bright world, to beh( Id 
The rock and the stream it knew of old. 

'Tis a cruel creed, believe it not 1 
Death to the good is a milder lot. 

They are here, — they are here, — that harmless pair, 
In the yellow sunshine and flowing air, 


124 


POEMS. 


In the light cloud-shadows that slowly pass, 

In the sounds that rise from the murmuring grass. 
They sit where their humble cottage stood, 

They walk by the waving edge of the wood, 

And list to the long-accustomed flow 
Of the brook that wets the rocks below. 

Patient, and peaceful, and passionless, 

As seasons on seasons swiftly press, 

They watch, and wait, and linger around, 

Till the day when their bodies shall leave the ground. 


THE CONJUNCTION OF JUPITER AND VENUS* 

I would not always reason. The straight path 
Wearies us with its never-varying lines, 

And we grow melancholy. I would make 
Reason my guide, but she should sometimes sit 
Patiently by the way-side, while I traced 
The mazes of the pleasant wilderness 
Around me. She should be my counsellor, 

But not my tyrant. For the spirit needs 
Impulses from a deeper source than hers, 

And there are motions, in the mind of man, 

That she must look upon with awe. I bow 
Reverently to her dictates, but not less 
Hold to the fair illusions of old time- 
illusions that shed brightness over life, 

And glory over nature. Look, even now, 

Where two bright planets in the twilight meet, 
Upon the saffron heaven, — the imperial star 
Of Jove, and she that from her radiant urn 
Pours forth the light of love. Let me believe. 
Awhile, that they are met for ends of good, 


THE CONJUNCTION OF JUPITER AND YEN US. 125 

Amid the evening glory, to confer 

Of men and their affairs, and to shed down 

Kind influence. Lo 1 they brighten as we gaze, 

And shake out softer fires 1 The great earth feels 
The gladness and the quiet of the time. 

Meekly the mighty river, that infolds 
This mighty city, smooths his front, and far 
Glitters and burns even to the rocky base 
Of the dark heights that bound him to the west ; 

And a deep murmur, from the many streets, 

Rises like a thanksgiving. Put we hence 

Dark and sad thoughts awhile — there’s time for them 

Hereafter— on the morrow we will meet, 

With melancholy looks, to tell our griefs, 

And make each other wretched ; this calm hour, 
This balmy, blessed evening, we will give 
To cheerful hopes and dreams of happy days, 

Born of the meeting of those glorious stars. 

Enough of drought has parched the year, and soar ed 
The land with dread of famine. Autumn, yet, 

Shall make men glad with unexpected fruits. 

The dog-star shall shine harmless : genial days 
Shall softly glide away into the keen 
And wholesome cold of winter ; he that fears 
The pestilence, shall gaze on those pure beams, 

And breathe, with confidence, the quiet air. 

Emblems of power and beauty! well may the} 
Shine brightest on our borders, and withdraw 
Towards the great Pacific, marking out 
The path of empire. Thus, in our own land, 

Ere long, the better Genius of our race, 

Having encompassed earth, and tamed its tribes, 
Shall sit him down beneath the farthest west, 

By the shore of that calm ocean, and look back 
On realms made happy. 


126 


POEMS. 


Light the nuptial torch, 
And say the glad, yet solemn rite, that knits 
The youth and maiden. Happy days to them 
That wed this evening ! — a long life of love, 

And blooming sons and daughters ! Happy they 
Born at this hour, for they shall see an age 
Whiter and holier than the past, and go 
Late to their graves. Men shall wear softer hearts, 
And shudder at the butcheries of war. 

As now at other murders. 


Hapless Greece ! 

Enough of blood has wet thy rocks, and stained 
Thy rivers ; deep enough thy chains have worn 
Their links into thy flesh ; the sacrifice 
Of thy pure maidens, and thy innocent babes, 

And reverend priests, has expiated all 
Thy crimes of old. In yonder mingling lights 
There is an omen of good days for thee. 

Tbou shalt arise from midst the dust and sit 
Again among the nations. Thine own arm 
Shall yet redeem thee. Not in wars like thine 
The world takes part Be it a strife of kings, — 
Despot with despot battling for a throne, — 

And Europe shall be stirred throughout her realms. 
Nations shall put on harness, and shall fall 
Upon each other, and in all their bounds 
The wailing of the childless shall not cease. 

Thine is a war for liberty, and thou 
Must fight it single-handed. The old world 
Looks coldly on the murderers of thy race, 

And leaves thee to the struggle ; and the new, — 

I fear me thou couldst tell a shameful tale 
Of fraud and lust of gain ; — thy treasury drained. 
And Missolonghi fallen. Yet thy wrongs 
Shall put new strength into thy heart and hand, 
And God and thy good sword shall yet work out, 
For thee, a terrible deliverance. 


A. StIMMEE EAMBLE. 


127 


A SUMMER RAMBLE. 

Tue quiet August noon has come, 

A slumberous silence fills the sky, 

The fields are still, the woods are dumb, 

In glassy sleep the waters lie. 

And mark yon soft white clouds that rest 
Above our vale, a moveless throng; 

The cattle, on the mountain’s breast, 

Enjoy the grateful shadow long. 

Oh, l\ow unlike those merry hours, 

In early June, when Earth laughs out. 

When the fresh winds make love to flowers, 
And woodlands sing and waters shout. 

When in the grass sweet voices talk, 

And strains of tiny music swell 

From every moss-cup of the rock, 

From every nameless blossom’s bell. 

But now a joy too deep for sound, 

A peace no other season knows, 

Hushes the heavens and wraps the ground, 
The blessing of supreme repose. 

Away 1 I will not be, to-day, 

The only slave of toil and care. 

Away from desk and dust! away! 

I’ll be as idle as the air. 


123 


POEMS. 


Beneath the open sky abroad, 

Am ong the plants and breathing things, 
The sinless, peaceful works of God, 

I’ll share the calm the season brings. 


Come, thou, in whose soft eyes I see 
The gentle meanings of thy heart, 
One day amid the woods with me, 
From men and all their cares apart. 


And where, upon the meadow’s breast, 
The shadow of the thicket lies, 

The blue wild flowers thou gatherest 
Shall glow yet deeper near thine eyes 


Come, and when mid the calm profound, 
I turn, those gentle eyes to seek, 

They, like the lovely landscape round, 
Of innocence and peace shall speak. 


Rest here, beneath the unmoving shade, 
And on the silent valleys gaze, 
Winding and widening, till they fade 
In yon soft ring of summer haze. 


The village trees their summits rear 
Still as its spire, and yonder flock 
At rest in those calm fields appear 
As chiselled from the lifeless rock. 

One tranquil mount the scene o’erlooks — 
There the hushed winds their sabbath keep 
While a near hum from bees and brooks 
Comes faintly like the breath of sleep. 


A. SCENE ON THE HUDSON. 


129 


Well may the gazer deem that -when, 
Worn with the struggle and the strife, 
And heart-sick at the wrongs of men, 
The good forsakes the scene of life ; 

Like this deep quiet that, awhile, 
Lingers the lovely landscape o’er, 
Shall be the peace whose holy smile 
Welcomes him to a happier shore. 


A SCENE ON THE BANKS OF THE HUDSON 

Cool shades and dews are round my way, 

And silence of the early day ; 

Mid the dark rocks that watch his bed, 

Glitters the mighty Hudson spread, 

Unrippled, save by drops that fall 
From shrubs that fringe his mountain wall ; 
And o’er the clear still water swells 
The music of the Sabbath bells. 

All, save this little nook of land, 

Circled with trees, on which I stand ; 

All, save that line of hills which lie 
Suspended in the mimic sky — 

Seems a blue void, above, below, 

Through which the white clouds come and go , 
And from the green world’s furthest steep 
I gaze into the airy deep. 

Loveliest of lovely things are they, 

On earth, that soonest pass away. 

The rose that lives its little hour 
Is prized beyond the sculptured flower. 


130 


POEMS. 


Even love, long tried and cherished long, 
Becomes more tender and more strong, 
At thought of that insatiate grave 
From which its yearnings cannot save. 

River ! in this still hour thou hast 
Too much of heaven on earth to last ; 

Nor long may thy still waters lie, 

An image of the glorious sky. 

Thy fate and mine are not repose, 

And ere another evening close, 

Thou to thy tides shalt turn again, 

And I to seek the crowd of men. 


THE HURRICANE. 

Lord of the winds ! I feel thee nigh, 

I know thy breath in the burning sky 1 
And I wait, with a thrill in every vein, 

For the coming of the hurricane ! 

And lo ! on the wing of the heavy gales, 
Through the boundless arch of heaven he sails 
Silent and slow, and terribly strong, 

The mighty shadow is borne along, 

Like the dark eternity to come ; 

While the world below, dismayed and dumb, 
Through the calm of the thick hot atmosphere 
Looks up at its gloomy folds with fear. 

They darken fast ; and the golden blaze 
Of the sun is quenched in the lurid haze, 

And he sends through the shade a funeral ray — 
A glare that is neither night nor day, 


TIIE nUESIGAXE. 


131 


A beam that touches, with hues of death, 

The clouds above and the earth beneath. 

To its covert glides the silent bird, 

While the hurricane’s distant voice is heaid 
Uplifted among the mountains round, 

And the forests hear and answer the sound. 

He is come ! he is come I do ye not behold 
His ample robes on the wind unrolled ? 

Giant of air I we bid thee hail I — 

How his gray skirts toss in the whirling gale ; 
How his huge and writhing arms are bent. 

To clasp the zone of the firmament, 

And fold at length, in their dark embrace, 

From mountain to mountain the visible space. 

Darker — still darker I the whirlwinds bear 
The dust of the plains to the middle air : 

And hark to the crashing, long and loud, 

Of the chariot of God in the thunder-cloud 1 
You may trace its path by the flashes that start 
From the rapid wheels where’er they dart. 

As the fire-bolts leap to the world below, 

And flood the skies with a lurid glow. 

What roar is that ? — ’tis the rain that breaks 
In torrents away from the airy lakes, 

Heavily poured on the shuddering ground, 

And shedding a nameless horror round. 

Ah ! well-known woods, and mountains, and skies, 
With the very clouds! — ye are lost to my eyes. 

I seek ye vainly, and see in your place 
The shadowy tempest that sweeps through space, 
A whirling ocean that fills the wall 
Of the crystal heaven, and buries all. 

And I, cut off from the world, remain 
Alone with the terrible hurricane. 


132 


POEMS. 


WILLIAM TEIL 

Chains may subdue the feeble spirit but thee, 

Tell, of the iron heart ! they coul 1 not tame ! 

For thou wert of the mountains ; tney proclaim 
The everlasting creed of liberty 
That creed is written on the untrampled snow, 
Thundered by torrents which no power can hold, 
Save that of God, when he sends forth his cold, 
And breathed by winds that through the free heaven 
blow. 

Thou, while thy prison walls were dark around, 
Didst meditate the lesson Nature taught, 

And to thy brief captivity was brought 
A. vision of thy Switzerland unbound. 

The bitter cup they mingled, strengthened thee 
For the great work to set thy country free. 


THE HUNTER’S SERENADE. 

Thy bower is finished, fairest! 

Fit bower for hunter’s bride — 
Where old woods overshadow 
The green savanna’s side. 






the hunter’s serenade. 


133 


I’ve wandered long, and wandered far, 
And never have I met, 

In all this lovely western land, 

A spot so lovely yet. 

But I shall think it fairer, 

When thou art come to bless, 

With thy sweet smile and silver voice. 
Its silent loveliness. 

For thee the wild grape glistens, 

On sunny knoll and tree, 

The slim papaya ripens 
Its yellow fruit for thee. 

For thee the duck, on glassy stream, 
The prairie-fowl shall die, 

My rifle for thy feast shall bring 
The wild swan from the sky. 

The forest’s leaping panther, 

Fierce, beautiful, and fleet, 

Shall yield his spotted hide to be 
A carpet for thy feet. 

I know, for thou hast told me, 

Thy maiden love of flowers ; 

Ah, those that deck thy gardens 
Are pale compared with ours. 

When our wide woods and mighty lawns 
Bloom to the April skies, 

The earth has no more gorgeous sight 
To show to human eyes. 

In meadows red with blossoms, 

All summer long, the bee 
Murmurs, and loads his yellow thighs, 
For thee, my love, and me. 

Or wouldst thou gaze at tokens 
Of ages long ago — 

Our old oaks stream with mosses, 

And sprout with mistletoe ; 

12 


POEMS. 


A.n<l mighty vines, like serpents, climb 
The giant sycamore ; 

And trunks, o’erthrown for centuries. 
Cumber the forest floor ; 

An d in the great savanna. 

The solitary mound, 

Built by the elder world, o’erlooks 
The loneliness around. 

Come, thou hast not forgotten 
Thy pledge and promise quite, 

With many blushes murmured, 

Beneath the evening light. 

Come, the young violets crowd my door, 
Thy earliest look to win, 

And at my silent window-sill 
The jessamine peeps in. 

All day the red-bird warbles, 

Upon the mulberry near, 

And the night-sparrow trills her song, 
All night, with none to hear. 


THE GREEK BOY. 

Gone are the glorious Greeks of old, 
Glorious in mien and mind ; 

Their bones are mingled with the mould, 
Their dust is on the wind ; 

The forms they hewed from living stone 
Survive the waste of years, alone, 

And, scattered with their ashes, show 
What greatness perished long ago. 


THE PAST. 


135 


Yet fresh the myrtles there — the springs 
Gush brightly as of yore ; 

Flowers blossom from the dust of kings, 

As many an age before. 

There nature moulds as nobly now, 

As e’er of old, the human brow: 

And copies still the martial form 
That braved Plataea’s battle storm. 

Boy ! thy first looks were taught to seek 
Their heaven in Hellas’ skies ; 

Her airs have tinged thy dusky cheek, 

Her sunshine lit thine eyes ; 

Thine ears have drunk the woodland strains 
Heard by old poets, and thy veins 
Swell with the blood of demigods, 

That slumber in thy country’s sods. 

Now is thy nation free — though late — 

Thy elder brethren broke — 

Broke, ere thy spirit felt its weight, 

The intolerable yoke. 

And Greece, decayed, dethroned, doth see 
Her youth renewed in such as thee : 

A shoot of that old vine that made 
The nations silent in its shade. 


THE PAST. 

Thou unrelenting Past I 

Strong are the barriers round thy dark domain, 
And fetters, sure and fast, 

Hold all that enter thy unbreathing reign. 


130 


POEMS. 


Far in thy realm withdrawn 
Old empires sit in sullenness and gloom, 
And glorious ages gone 
Lie deep within the shadow of thy womb. 


Childhood, with all its mirth, 

Youth, Manhood, Age that draws us to the grour 
And last, Man’s Life on earth, 

Glide to thy dim dominions, and are bound. 


Thou hast my better years, 

Thou hast my earlier friends — the good — the kind. 
Yielded to thee with tears — 

The venerable form — the exalted mind. 


My spirit yearns to bring 
The lost ones back — yearns with desire intense, 
And struggles hard to wring 
Thy bolts apart, and pluck thy captives thence 


In vain — thy gates deny 
All passage save to those who hence depart ; 

Nor to the streaming eye 
Thou giv’st them back — nor to the broken heart. 


In thy abysses hide 

Beauty and excellence unknown — to thee 
Earth’s wonder and her pride 
Are gathered, as the waters to the sea ; 


Labors of good to man, 

Unpublished charity, unbroken faith, — 

Love, that midst grief began, 

And grew with years, and faltered not in death 


THE PAST. 


137 


Full many a mighty name 
Lurks in thy depths, unuttered, unrevered ; 

With thee are silent fame, 

Forgotten arts, and wisdom disappeared. 

Thine for a space are they — 

Yet shalt thou yield thy treasures up at last ; 

Thy gates shall yet give way. 

Thy bolls shall fall, inexorable Past I 

All that of good and fair 
Has gone into thy womb from earliest time, 
Shall then come forth to wear 
The glory and the beauty of its prime. 

They have not perished — no 1 
Kind words, remembered voices once so sweet, 
Smiles, radiant long ago, 

And features, the great soul’s apparent seat. 

All shall come back, each tie 
Of pure affection shall be knit again ; 

Alone shall Evil die, 

And Sorrow dwell a prisoner in thy reign. 

And then shall I behold 
Him, by whose kind paternal side I sprung, 
And her, who, still and cold, 

Fills the next grave — the beautiful and young 


188 


POEMS. 


“ UPON THE MOUNTAIN’S DISTANT HEAD * 

Upon the mountain’s distant head, 

With trackless snows for ever white, 

Where all is still, and cold, and dead, 

Late shines the day’s departing light 

But far below those icy rocks, 

The vales, in summer bloom arrayed, 

Woods full of birds, and fields of flocks, 

Are dim with mist and dark with shade. 

*Tis thus, from warm and kindly hearts, 

And eyes where generous meanings burn. 
Earliest the light of life departs, 

But lingers with the cold and stern. 


THE EVENING WIND. 

Spirit that breathest through my lattice, thou 
That cool’st the twilight of the sultry day, 
Gratefully flows thy freshness round my brow : 

Thou hast been out upon the deep at play, 

Riding all day the wild blue waves till now, 
Roughening their crests, and scattering high their 
spray 

And swelling the white sail. I welcome thee 
To the scorched land, thou wanderer of the sea 1 


THE EVENING WIND. 


139 


Nor I alone — a thousand bosoms round 
Inhale thee in the fulness of delight ; 

And languid forms rise up, and pulses bound 
Livelier, at coming of the wind of night ; 

And, languishing to hear thy grateful sound, 

Lies the vast inland stretched beyond the sight. 

Go forth into the gathering shade ; go forth, 

God’s blessing breathed upon the fainting earth I 

Go, rock the little wood-bird in his nest, 

Curl the still waters, bright with stars, and rouse 
The wide old wood from his majestic rest, 
Summoning from the innumerable boughs 
The strange, deep harmonies that haunt his breast : 

Pleasant shall be thy way where meekly bows 
The shutting flower, and darkling waters pass, 

And where the o’ershadowing branches sweep the 
grass. 

The faint old man shall lean his silver head 
To feel thee ; thou shalt kiss the child asleep, 

And dry the moistened curls that overspread 

Ilis temples, while his breathing grows more deep ; 
And they who stand about the sick man’s bed, 

Shall joy to listen to thy distant sweep, 

And softly part his curtains to allow 
Thy visit, grateful to his burning brow. 

Go— but the circle of eternal change, 

Which is the life of nature, shall restore, 

With sounds and scents from all thy mighty range, 
Thee to thy birthplace of the deep once more ; 
Sweet odors in the sea-air, sweet and strange, 

Shall tell the home-sick mariner of the shore ; 

And, listening to thy murmur, he shall deem 
He hears the rustling leaf and i anning stream. 


140 


POEMS. 


« WHEN THE FIRMAMENT QUIVERS WITH 
DAYLIGHT’S YOUNG BEAM.” 

When the firmament quivers with daylight’s young 
beam, 

And the woodlands awaking burst into a hymn, 
And the glow of the sky blazes back from the stream, 
How the bright ones of heaven in the brightness 
grow dim. 

Oh ! ’tis sad, in that moment of glory and song. 

To see, while the hill-tops are waiting the sun, 

The glittering band that kept watch all night long 
O’er Love and o’er Slumber, go out one by one : 

Till the circle of ether, deep, ruddy, and vast, 

Scarce glimmers with one of the train that were 
there ; 

And their leader the day-star, the brightest and last, 
Twinkles faintly and fades in that desert of air. 

Thus, Oblivion, from midst of whose shadow we came, 
Steals o’er us again when life’s twilight is gone ; 
And the crowd of bright names, in the heaven of fame 
Grow pale and are quenched as the years hasten on. 

Let them fade — but we’ll pray that the age, in whose 
flight, 

Of ourselves and our friends the remembrance shall 
die, 

May rise o’er the world, with the gladness and light 
Of the morning that withers the stars from the sky 


INNOCENT CHILD. 


141 


“INNOCENT CHILD AND SNOW-WHITE 
FLOWER.” 

Innocent child and snow-white flower I 
Well are ye paired in your opening hour. 
Thus should the pure and the lovely meet, 
Stainless with stainless, and sweet with sweet 

White as those leaves, just blown apart, 

Are the folds of thy own young heart , 

Guilty passion and cankering care 
Never have left their traces there. 

Artless one ! though thou gazest now 
O’er the white blossom with earnest brow, 
Soon will it tire thy childish eye ; 

Fair as it is, thou wilt throw it by. 

Throw it aside in thy weary hour, 

Throw to the ground the fair white flower; 
Yet, as thy tender years depart, 

Keep that white and innocent heart. 


142 


POEMS. 


TO THE RIVER ARVE. 

SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN AT A HAMLET NEAR THE FOOT 
OF MONT BLANC. 

Not from the sands or cloven rocks, 

Thou rapid Arve ! thy waters flow ; 

Nor earth, within her bosom, locks 
Thy dark unfathomed wells below. 

Thy springs are in the cloud, thy stream 
Begins to move and murmur first 
Where ice-peaks feel the noonday beam, 

Or rain-storms on the glacier burst. 


Born where the thunder and the blast 
And morning’s earliest light are born, 
Thou rushest swoln, and loud, and fast, 

Bj' these low homes, as if in scorn : 

Vet humbler springs yield purer waves ; 

And brighter, glassier streams than thine. 
Sent up from earth’s unlighted caves, 

With heaven’s own beam and image shine. 


Yet stay; for here are flowers and trees; 

Warm rays on cottage roofs are here, 
And laugh of girls, and hum of bees — 
Here linger till thy waves are clear. 
Thou heedest not — thou hastest on , 
From steep to steep thy torrent falls, 
Till, mingling with the mighty Rhone, 

It rests beneath Geneva’s walls. 


TO COLE, THE PAINTER. 


143 


Rush on— but were there one with me 
That loved me, I would light my hearth 
Here, where with God’s own majesty 
Are touched the features of the earth. 
By these old peaks, white, high, and vast. 
Still rising as the tempests beat, 

Here would I dwell, and sleep, at last, 
Among the blossoms at their feet. 


TO COLE, THE PAINTER, DEPARTING FOR 
EUROPE. 

A SONNET. 

Thine eyes shall see the light of distant skies : 

Yet, Cole! thy heart shall bear to Europe's strand 
A living image of our own bright land, 

Such as upon thy glorious canvas lies ; 

Lone lakes — savannas where the bison roves — 

Rocks rich with summer garlands — solemn 
streams — 

Skies, where the desert eagle wheels and screams — 
Spring bloom and autumn blaze of boundless groves. 
Fair scenes shall greet thee where thou goest — fair, 
But different — every where the trace of men, 
Paths, homes, graves, ruins, from the lowest glen 
To where life shrinks from the fierce Alpine air, 

Gaze on them, till the tears shall dim thy sight, 
But keep that earlier, wilder image bright. 


POEMS. 


TO THE FRINGED GENTIAN 

Thou blossom bright with autumn dew, 
And colored with the heaven’s own blue, 
That openest when the quiet light 
Succeeds the keen and frosty night. 

Thou comest not when violets lean 
O’er wandering brooks and springs unseen 
Or columbines, in purple dressed, 

Nod o’er the ground-bird’s hidden nest. 

Thou waitest late and com’st alone, 

When woods are bare and birds are flown, 
And frosts and shortening days portend 
The aged year is near his end. 

Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye 
Look through its fringes to the sky. 

Blue — blue — as if that sky let fall 
A flower from its cerulean wall. 

I would that thus, when I shall see 
The hour of death draw near to me, 

Hope, blossoming within my heart, 

May look to heaven as I depart. 


HYMN TO THE CITY. 


145 


THE TWENTY-SECOND OF DECEMBER. 

Wild was the day ; the wintry sea 
Moaned sadly on New England’s strand, 

When first the thoughtful and the free, 

Our fathers, trod the desert land. 

They little thought how pure a light, 

With years, should gather round that day; 

How love should keep their memories bright, 
How wide a realm their sons should sway. 

Green are their hays ; but greener still 

Shall round their spreading fame be wreathed. 

And regions, now untrod, shall thrill 

With reverence when their names are breathed. 

Till where the sun, with softer fires, 

Looks on the vast Pacific’s sleep, 

The children of the pilgrim sires 
This hallowed day like us shall keep. 


HYMN TO THE CITY. 

Not in the solitude 

Alone may man commune with Heaven, or see 
Only in savage wood 
And sunny vale, the present Deity ; 

Or only hear his voice 

Where the winds whisper and the waves rejoice, 
13 


146 


POEMS. 


Even here do I behold 

Thy steps, Almighty! — here, amidst the crowd, 
Through the great city rolled, 

With everlasting murmur deep and loud — 
Choking the ways that wind 
*Mongst the proud piles, the work of human kind. 

Thy golden sunshine comes 
From the round heaven, and on their dwellings lies, 
And lights their inner homes ; 

For them thou fill’st with air the unbounded skies, 
And givest them the stores 
Of ocean, and the harvests of its shores. 

Thy Spirit is around, 

Quickening the restless mass that sweeps along 5 
And this eternal sound — 

Voices and footfalls of the numberless throng — 
Like the resounding sea, 

Or like the rainy tempest, speaks of thee. 

And when the hours of rest 
Come, like a calm upon the mid-sea brine, 

Hushing its billowy breast — 

The quiet of that moment too is thine ; 

It breathes of Him who keeps 
The vast and helpless city while it sleeps?. 


THE PRAIRIES. 


14 ? 


THE PRAIRIES. 

These are the gardens of the Desert, these 
The unshorn fields, boundless and beautiful, 

For which the speech of England has no name — 

The Prairies. I behold them for the first, 

And my heart swells, while the dilated sight 
Takes in the encircling vastness. Lo ! they stretch 
In airy undulations, far away. 

As if the ocean, in his gentlest swell, 

Stood still, with all his rounded billows fixed, 

And motionless for ever. — Motionless ? — 

No— they are all unchained again. The clouds 
Sweep over with their shadows, and, beneath, 

The surface rolls and fluctuates to the eye ; 

Dark hollows seem to glide along and chase 
The sunny ridges. Breezes of the South ! 

Who toss the golden and the flame-like flowers, 

And pass the prairie-hawk that, poised on high, 
Flaps his broad wings, yet moves not — ye have played 
Among the palms of Mexico and vines 
Of Texas, and have crisped the limpid brooks 
That from the fountains of Sonora glide 
Into the calm Pacific — have ye fanned 
A nobler or a lovelier scene than this ? 

Man hath no part in all this glorious work : 

The hand that built the firmament hath heaved 
And smoothed these verdant swells, and 60wn their 
slopes 

With herbage, planted them with island groves, 

And hedged them round with forests. Fitting floor 
For this magnificent temple of the sky — 

With flowers whose glory and whose multitude 
Rival the constellations 1 The great heavens 


148 


POEMS. 


Seem to stoop down upon the scene in love,— 

A nearer vault, and of a tenderer blue, 

Than that which bends above our eastern hills. 

As o’er the verdant waste I guide my steed, 

Among the high rank grass that sweeps his sides 
The hollow beating of his footstep seems 
A sacrilegious sound. I think of those 
Upon whose rest he tramples. Are they here— 

The dead of other days? — and did the dust 
Of these fair solitudes once stir with life 
And burn with passion ? Let the mighty mounds 
That overlook the rivers, or that rise 
In the dim forest crowded with old oaks, 

Answer. A race, that long has passed away, 

Built them ; — a disciplined and populous race 
Heaped with long toil, the earth, while yet the Greet 
Was hewing the Pentelicus to forms 
Of symmetry, and rearing on its rock 
The glittering Parthenon. These ample fields 
Nourished their harvests, here their herds were fed. 
When haply by their stalls the bison lowed, 

And bowed his maned shoulder to the yoke. 

All day this desert murmured with their toils, 

Till twilight blushed, and lovers walked, and wooed 
In a forgotten language, and old. tunes, 

From instruments of unremembered form, 

Gave the soft winds a voice. The red man came — 
The roaming hunter tribes, warlike and fierce, 

And the mound-builders vanished from the earth. 

The solitude of centuries untold 
Has settled where they dwelt. The prairie-wolf 
Hunts in their meadows, and his fresli-dug den 
Y awns by my path. The gopher mines the ground 
Where stood their swarming cities. All is gone ; 

All — save the piles of earth that hold their bones, 
The platforms where they worshipped unknown gods, 
The barriers which they builded from the soil 


THE PKAIEIES. 


149 


To keep the foe at bay — till o’er the walls 
The wild beleaguerers broke, and, one by one, 

The strongholds of the plain were forced, and heaped 
With corpses. The brown vultures of the wood 
Flocked to those vast uncovered sepulchres, 

And sat, unscared and silent, at their feast. 

Haply some solitary fugitive, 

Lurking in marsh and forest, till the sense 
Of desolation and of fear became 
Bitterer than death, yielded himself to die. 

Man’s better nature triumphed then. Kind words 
Welcomed and soothed him; the rude conquerors 
Seated the captive with their chiefs ; he chose 
A bride among their maidens, and at length 
Seemed to forget, — yet ne’er forgot, — the wife 
Of his first love, and her sweet little ones, 

Butchered, amid their shrieks, with all his race 

Thus change the forms of being. Thus arise 
Races of living things, glorious in strength, 

And perish, as the quickening breath of God 
Fills them, or is withdrawn. The red man, too 
Has left the blooming wilds he ranged so long. 

And, nearer to the Rocky Mountains, sought 
A wilder hunting-ground The beaver builds 
JSo longer by these streams, but far away, 

On waters whose blue surface ne’er gave back 
The white man’s face — among Missouri’s springs, 

And pools whose issues swell the Oregan, 

He rears his little Venice. In these plains 
The bison feeds no more. Twice twenty leagues 
Beyond remotest smoke of hunter’s camp, 

Roams the majestic brute, in herds that shake 
The earth with thundering steps — yet here I meet 
His ancient footprints stamped beside the pool. 

Still this great solitude is quick with life. 

Myriads of insects, gaudy as the flowers 


150 


POEMS. 


They flutter over, gentle quadrupeds, 

And birds, that scarce have learned the fear of man* 
Are here, and sliding reptiles of the ground, 
Startlingly beautiful. The graceful deer 
Bounds to the wood at my approach. The bee, 

A more adventurous colonist than man, 

With whom he came across the eastern deep. 

Fills the savannas with his murmurings, 

And hides his sweets, as in the golden age. 

Within the hollow oak. I listen long 

To his domestic hum, and think I hear 

The sound of that advancing multitude 

Which soon shall fill these deserts. From the ground 

Comes up the laugh of children, the soft voice 

Of maidens, and the sweet and solemn hymn 

Of Sabbath worshippers. The low of herds 

Blends with the rustling of the heavy grain 

Over the dark-brown furrows. All at once 

A fresher wind sweeps by, and breaks my dream. 

And I am in the wilderness alone. 




SONG OF MARION’S MEN. 

Our band is few, but true and tried. 
Our leader frank and bold ; 

The British soldier trembles 
When Marion’s name is told. 

Our fortress is the good greenwood. 
Our tent the cypress-tree ; 

We know the forest round us. 

As seamen know the sea. 


SONG OF MARION’S MEN. 

W e know its walls of thorny vines. 

Its glades of reedy grass, 

Its safe and silent islands 
Within the dark morass. 

Wo to the English soldiery 
That little dread us near 1 
On them shall light at midnight 
A strange and sudden fear : 

When, waking to their tents on fire, 

They grasp their arms in vain, 

And they who stand to face us 
Are beat to earth again ; 

And they who fly in terror deem 
A mighty host behind, 

And hear the tramp of thousands 
Upon the hollow wind. 

Then sweet the hour that brings release 
From danger and from toil : 

We talk the battle over, 

And share the battle’s spoil. 

The woodland rings with laugh and shout* 
As if a hunt were up, 

And woodland flowers are gathered 
To crown the soldier’s cup. 

With merry songs we mock the wind 
That in the pine-top grieves, 

And slumber long and sweetly 
On beds of oaken leaves. 

Well knows the fair and friendly moon 
The band that Marion leads — 

The glitter of their rifles, 

The scampering of their steeds. 

*Tis life to guide the fiery barb 
Across the moonlight plain ; 

*Tis life to feel the night-wind 
That lifts his tossing mane. 


152 


POEMS. 


A moment in the British camp — 

A moment — and away 
Back to the pathless forest, 

Before the peep of day. 

Grave men there are by broad Santee, 
Grave men with hoary hairs, 

Their hearts are all with Marion, 

For Marion are their prayers. 

And lovely ladies greet our band 
With kindliest welcoming, 

With smiles like those of summer, 

And tears like those of spring. 

For them we wear these trusty arms, 
And lay them down no more 
Till we have driven the Briton, 

For ever, from our shore. 


THE ARCTIC LOVER. 

Gone is the long, long winter night ; 

Look, my beloved one ! 

How glorious, through his depths of light. 
Rolls the majestic sun I 
The willows, waked from winter’s death, 
Give out a fragrance like thy breath — 
The summer is begun I 

Ay, ’tis the long bright summer day : 

Hark, to that mighty crash 1 
The loosened ice-ridge breaks away — ■ 

The smitten waters flash. 


THE ARCJT1 D LOVER, 


153 


Seaward the glittering mountain rides, 
While, down its green translucent sides, 
The foamy torrents dash. 

See, love, my boat is moored for thee, 
By ocean’s weedy floor — 

The petrel does not skim the sea 
More swiftly than my oar. 

We’ll go, where, on the rocky isles, 

Her eggs the screaming sea-fowl piles 
Beside the pebbly shore. 

Or, bide thou where the poppy blows. 
With wind-flowers frail and fair, 
While I, upon this isle of snows, 

Seek and defy the bear. 

Fierce though he be, and huge of frame, 
This arm his savage strength shall tame, 
And drag him from his lair. 

When crimson sky and flamy cloud 
Bespeak the summer o’er, 

And the dead valleys wear a shroud 
Of snows that melt no more, 

I’ll build of ice thy winter home, 

With glistening walls and glassy dome, 
And spread with skins the floor. 

The white fox by thy couch shall play; 

And, from the frozen skies, 

The meteors of a mimic day 
Shall flash upon thine eyes. 

And I — for such thy vow — meanwhile 
Shall hear thy voice and see thy smile. 
Till that long midnight flies. 


154 


POEMS. 


THE JOURNEY OF LIFE. 

Beneath the "waning moon I walk at night, 

And muse on human life — for all around 
Are dim uncertain shapes that cheat the sight, 

And pitfalls lurk in shade along the ground, 

And broken gleams of brightness, here and there, 
Glance through, and leave un warmed the death-like air 

The trampled earth returns a sound of fear — 

A hollow sound, as if I walked on tombs ; 

And lights, that tell of cheerful homes, appear 
Far off, and die like hope amid the glooms. 

A mournful wind across the landscape flies, 

And the wide atmosphere is full of sighs. 

And I, with faltering footsteps, journey on, 
Watching the stars that roll the hours away, 

Till the faint light that guides me now is gone, 

And, like another life, the glorious day 
Shall open o’er me from the empyreal height, 

With warmth, and certainty, and boundless light. 


TRANSLATIONS. 


VERSION OF A FRAGMENT OF SIMONIDES 

The night winds howled — the billows dashed 
Against the tossing chest ; 

As DanaS to her broken heart 
Her slumbering infant pressed. 

“ My little child ” — in tears she said — 

“ To wake and weep is mine. 

But thou canst sleep — thou dost not know 
Thy mother’s lot, and thine. 

4 ‘ The moon is up, the moonbeams smile — 

They tremble on the main ; 

But dark, within my floating cell, 

To me they smile in vain. 

M Thy folded mantle wraps thee warm, 

Thy clustering locks are dry, 

Thou dost not hear the shrieking gust. 

Nor breakers booming high. 


156 


TEANSLATIONS. 


“ As o’er thy sweet unconscious face 
A mournful watch I keep, 

I think, didst thou but know thy fate, 
How thou wouldst also weep. 

“Yet, dear one, sleep, and sleep, ye winds 
That vex the restless brine — 

When shall these eyes, my babe, be sealed 
As peacefully as thine 1 “ 


FROM THE SPANISH OF VILLEGAS. 

’Tis sweet, in the green Spring, 

To gaze upon the wakening fields around ; 

Birds in the thicket sing, 

Winds whisper, waters prattle from the ground 
A thousand odors rise, 

Breathed up from blossoms of a thousand dyes. 

Shadowy, and close, and cool, 

The pine and poplar keep their quiet nook ; 
For ever fresh and full, 

Shines, at their feet, the thirst-inviting brook ; 

And the soft herbage seems 
Spread for a place of banquets and of dreams. 

Thou, who alone art fair, 

And whom alone I love, art far away 
Unless thy smile be there, 

It makes me sad to see the earth so gay ; 

I care not if the train 

Of leaves, and flowers, and zephyrs go again. 


MARY MAGDALEN. 


15 ? 


MARY MAGDALEN. 

CROii mE SPANISH OF BARTOLOME LEONARDO DE ARGENSOLA 

Blessed, yet sinful one, and broken-hearted ! 

The crowd are pointing at the thing forlorn, 

In wonder and in scorn I 

Thou weepest days of innocence departed ; 

Thou weepest, and thy tears have power to move 
The Lord to pity and love. 

The greatest of thy follies is forgiven, 

Even for the least of all the tears that shine 
On that pale cheek of thine. 

Thou didst kneel down, to Him who came from heaven. 
Evil and ignorant, and thou shalt rise 
Holy, and pure, and wise. 

It is not much that to the fragrant blossom 
The ragged brier should change ; the bitter fir, 
Distil Arabian myrrh 1 

Nor that, upon the wintry desert’s bosom, 

The harvest should rise plenteous, and the swain 
Bear home the abundant grain. 

But come and see the bleak and barren mountains 
Thick to their tops with roses : come and see 
Leaves on the dry dead tree : 

Ihe perished plant, set out by living fountains. 
Grows fruitful, and its beauteous branches rise, 
For ever, towards the skies. 


14 


158 


TRANSLATIONS. 


THE LIFE OF THE BLESSED. 

FROM THE SPANISH OF LUIS PONCE DE LEC'N. 

RegIon of life and light ! 

Land of the good whose earthly toils are o’er 1 
Nor frost nor heat may blight 
Thy vernal beauty, fertile shore, 
fielding thy blessed fruits for evermore . 

There, without crook or sling, 

<Valks the good shepherd ; blossoms white and red 
Round his meek temples cling; 

And to sweet pastures led, 

His own loved flock beneath his eye is fed. 

He guides, and near him they 
Follow delighted, for he makes them go 
Where dwells eternal May, 

And heavenly roses blow, 

Deathless, and gathered but again to grow. 

He leads them to the height 
Named of the infinite and long-sought Good, 

And fountains of delight ; 

And where his feet have stood 
Springs up, along the way, their tender food. 

And when, in the mid skies, 

The climbing sun has reached his highest bound 
Reposing as he lies. 

With all his flock around, 

He witches the still air with numerous sound. 


FATIMA AND KACHAN. 


159 


From his sweet lute flow forth 
Immortal harmonies, of power to still 
All passions born of earth, 

And draw the ardent will 
Its destiny of goodness to fulfil. 

Might but a little part, 

A wandering breath of that high melody, 
Descend into my heart, 

And change it till it be 

Transformed and swallowed up, oh lo\ e . in thee. 

Ah ! then my soul should know, 

Beloved 1 where thou best at noon of day, 

And from this place of woe 
Released, should take its way 
To mingle with thy flock and never stray. 


FATIMA AND RADUAN. 

FROM THE SPANISH. 


Diamante falso y fingido, 
Engastado en pedernal, Ac. 


,s False diamond set in flint I hard heart in haughty 
breast I 

By a softer, warmer bosom the tiger’s couch is prest. 

Thou art fickle as the sea ; thou art wandering as the 
wind, 

And the restless ever-mounting flame is not more hard 
to bind. 


160 


TRANSLATIONS. 


If the tears I shed were tongues, yet all too few 
would be 

To tell of all the treachery that thou hast shown to me 

Oh I could chide thee sharply — but every maiden 
knows 

That she who chides her lover, forgives him ere he goes. 

“ Thou hast called me oft the flower of all Grenada’s 
maids, 

Thou hast said that by the side of me the first and 
fairest fades ; 

And they thought thy heart was mine, and it seemed 
to every one 

That what thou didst to win my love, for love of 
me was done. 

Alas ! if they but knew thee, as mine it is to know, 

They well might see another mark to which thine ar 
rows go ; 

But thou giv’st me little heed — for I speak to one who 
knows 

That she who chides her lover, forgives him ere he 
goes. 

“ It wearies me, mine enemy, that I must weep and 
bear 

What fills thy heart with triumph, and fills my own 
with care. 

Thou art leagued with those that hate me, and ah ! 
thou know’st I feel 

That cruel words as surely kill as sharpest blades of 
steeL 

'Twas the doubt that thou wert false that wrung my 
heart with pain ; 

But, now I know thy perfidy, I shall be well again. 

I would proclaim thee as thou art — but every maiden 
knows 

That she who chides her lover, forgives him ere he 
goes.” 


LOYE AND FOLLY. 


161 


Thus Fatima complained to the valiant Raduan, 

Where underneath the myrtles Alhambra’s fountains 
ran : 

The Moor was inly moved, and blameless as he was, 

He took her white hand in his own, and pleaded thus 
his cause : 

“ Oh, lady, dry those star-like eyes — their dimness 
does me wrong ; 

If my heart be made of flint, at least ’twill keep thy 
image long ; 

Thou hast uttered cruel words — but I grieve the less 
for those, 

Since she who chides her lover, forgives him ere he 
goes.” 


LOYE AND FOLLY. 

FROM LA FONTAINE. 

Love’s worshippers alone can know 
The thousand mysteries that are hi3 ; 

His blazing torch, his twanging bow, 
His blooming age are mysteries. 

A charming science — but the day 
Were all too short to con it o’er; 

So take of me this little lay, 

A sample of its boundless lore. 

As once, beneath the fragrant shade 
Of myrtles fresh in heaven’s pure air, 

The children, Love and Folly, played — 
A quarrel rose betwixt the pair. 


TRANSLATIONS. 


102 


Love said the gods should do him right — 
But Folly vowed to do it then, 

And struck him, o’er the orbs of sight, 

So hard he never saw again. 

His lovely mother’s grief was deep 
She called for vengeance on the deed ; 

A beauty does not vainly weep, 

Nor coldly does a mother plead. 

A shade came o’er the eternal bliss 
That fills the dwellers of the skies ; 

Even stony-hearted Nemesis, 

And Rhadamanthus, wiped their eyes. 

“ Behold,” she said, “ this lovely boy,” 

While streamed afresh her graceful tears, 
" Ir tmortal, yet shut out from joy 
And sunshine, all his future years. 

The child can never take, you see, 

A single step without a staff — 

The harshest punishment would be 
Too lenient for the crime by half.” 

All said that Love had suffered wrong, 

And well that wrong should be repaid ; 

Then weighed the public interest long, 

And long the party’s interest weighed. 

And thus decreed the court above — 

“ Since Love is blind from Folly’s bloWj 

Let Folly be the guide of Love, 

Where’er the boy may choose to go.” 


THE SIESTA. 


icy 


THE SIESTA. 

FROM THE SPANISH. 


Vientecico murmurador, 

Quo lo gozas y and as todo, Ac. 


Airs, that wander and murmur round, 

Bearing delight where’er ye blow I 
Make in the elms a lulling sound, 

While my lady sleeps in the shade below. 

Lighten and lengthen her noonday rest, 

Till the heat of the noonday sun is o’er. 

Sweet be her slumbers 1 though in my breast 
The pain she has waked may slumber no more. 
Breathing soft from the blue profound, 

Bearing delight where’er ye blow, 

Make in the elms a lulling sound, 

While my lady sleeps in the shade below; 

Airs ! that over the bending boughs, 

And under the shade of pendent leaves, 
Murmur soft, like my timid vows 

Or the secret sighs my bosom heaves, — 

Gently sweeping the grassy ground, 

Bearing delight where’er ye blow, 

Make in the elms a lulling sound, 

While my lady sleeps in the shade below. 


1G4 


TRANSLATIONS. 


TEE ALCAYDE OF MOLINA 

FROM THE SPANISH. 

To the town of Atienza, Molina’s brave Alcayde, 

The courteous and the valorous, led forth his bold 
brigade. 

The Moor came back in triumph, he came without a 
wound, 

With many a Christian standard, and Christian cap- 
tive bound. 

He passed the city portals, with swelling heart and 
vain, 

And towards his lady’s dwelling he rode with slack- 
ened rein ; 

Two circuits on his charger he took, and at the third, 

From the door of her balcony Zelinda’s voice was 
heard. 

“Now if thou wert not shameless,” said the. lady to 
the Moor, 

“ Thou wouldst neither pass my dwelling, nor stop 
before my door. 

Alas for poor Zelinda, and for her wayward mood, 

That one in love with peace should have loved a man 
of blood I 

Since not that thou wert noble I chose thee for my 
knight, 

But that thy sword was dreaded in tournay and in 
fight. 

Ah, thoughtless and unhappy ! that I should fail to see 

IIow ill the stubborn flint and the yielding wax agree. 

Boast not thy love for me, while the shri eking of the fife 

Can change thy mood of mildness to fury and to strife. 


THE ALOAYDE OF MCLINA. 


105 


Say not my voice is magic — thy pleasure is to hear 

The bursting of the carbine, and shivering of the spear 

Well, follow thou thy choice — to the battle-field away, 

To thy triumphs and thy trophies, since I am less than 
they. 

Thrust thy arm into thy buckler, gird on thy crook ed 
brand, 

A nd call upon thy trusty squire to bring thy spears 
in hand. 

Lead forth thy band to skirmish, by mountain and by 
mead, 

On thy dappled Moorish barb, or thy fleeter border 
steed. 

Go, waste the Christian hamlets, and sweep away 
their flocks, 

From Almazan’s broad meadows to SiguPnza’s rocks. 

Leave Zelinda altogether, whom thou leavest oft and 
long, 

And in the life thou lovest, forget whom thou dost 
wrong. 

These eyes shall not recall thee, though they meet no 
more thine own, 

Though they weep that thou art absent, and that 1 
am all alone.” 

She ceased, and turning from him her flushed and an- 
gry cheek, 

Shut the door of her balcony before the Moor (ould 
speak 


TRANSLATIONS. 


THE DEATH OF ALIATAR 

FROM THE SPANISH. 

’Tis not with gilded sabres 
That gleam in baldrieks blue, 

Nor nodding plumes in caps of Fez 
Of gay and gaudy hue — 

But, habited in mourning weeds, 

Come marching from afar, 

By four and four, the valiant men 
Who fought with Aliatar. 

All mournfully and slowly 
The afflicted warriors come, 

To the deep wail of the trumpet, 

And beat of muffled drum. 

The banner of the Phenix, 

The flag that loved the sky, 

That scarce the wind dared wanton wi 
It flew so proud and high — 

Now leaves its place in battle-field, 
And sweeps the ground in grief, 

The bearer drags its glorious folds 
Behind the fallen chief, 

As mournfully and slowly 
The afflicted warriors come, 

To the deep wail of the trumpet, 

And beat of muffled drum. 

Brave Aliatar led forward 
A hundred Moors to go 
To where his brother held Motril 
Against the leaguering foe. 


THE DEATH OF ALIATAE. 


167 


On horseback went the gallant Moor, 

That gallant band to lead ; 

And now his bier is at the gate, 

From which he pricked his steed. 

While mournfully and slowly 
The afflicted warriors come, 

To the deep wail of the trumpet, 

And beat of muffled drum. 

The knights of the Grand Master 
In crowded ambush lay; 

They rushed upon him where the reeds 
Were thick beside the way; 

They smote the valiant Aliatar, 

They smote the warrior dead, 

And broken, but not beaten, were 
The gallant ranks he led. 

Now mournfully and slowly 
The afflicted warriors come. 

To the deep wail of the trumpet, 

And beat of muffled drum. 

Oh 1 what was Zayda’s sorrow, 

How passionate her cries ! 

Her lover’s wounds streamed not more free, 
Than that poor maiden’s eyes. 

Say, Love — for didst thou see her tears: 
Oh, no 1 he drew more tight 

The blinding fillet o’er his lids 
To spare his eyes the sight. 

While mournfully and slowly 
The afflicted warriors come. 

To the deep wail of the trumpet, 

And beat of muffled drum. 

Nor Zayda weeps him only, 

But all that dwell between 

The great Alhambra’s palace walls 
And springs of Albaicin. 


168 


TRANSLATIONS. 


The ladies weep the flower of knights, 
The brave the bravest here ; 

The people weep a champion, 

The Alcaydes a noble peer. 

While mournfully and slowly 
The afflicted warriors come, 

To the deep wail of the trumpet. 

And beat of muffled drum. 


LOVE I H THE AGE OF CHIVALRY. 

FROM PEYRE VIDAL, THE TROUBADOUR. 

The earth was sown with early flowers, 
The heavens were blue and bright — 

I met a youthful cavalier 
As lovely as the light. 

I knew him not — but in my heart 
His graceful image lies, 

And well I marked his open brow, 

His sweet and tender eyes, 

His ruddy lips that ever smiled, 

His glittering teeth betwixt, 

And flowing robe embroidered o’er. 

With leaves and blossoms mixed. 

He wore a chaplet of the rose ; 

His palfrey, white and sleek, 

Was marked with many an ebon spot, 
And many a purple streak ; 

Of jasper was his saddle-bow, 

His housings sapphire stone, 

And brightly iD his stirrup glanced 
The purple calcedon. 


THE LOVE OF GOD. 


169 


Fast rode the gallant cavalier, 

As youthful horsemen ride ; 

“ Peyre Vidal ! know that I am Love,” 
The blooming stranger cried ; 
“And this is Mercy by my side, 

A dame of high degree ; 

This maid is Chastity,” he said, 

“ This squire is Loyalty.” 


THE LOVE OF GOD. 

FROM THE PROVENCAL OF BERNARD RASCAS. 

All things that are on earth shall wholly pass away, 

Except the love of God, which shall live and last for 
aye. 

The forms of men shall be as they had never been; 

The blasted groves shall lose their fresh and tender 
green ; 

The birds of the thicket shall end their pleasant song, 

A.nd the nightingale shall cease to chant the evening 
long. 

Die kine of the pasture shall feel the dart that kills, 

And all the fair white flocks shall perish from the hills. 

The goat and antlered stag, the wolf and the fox, 

The wild boar of the wood, and the chamois of the 
rocks, 

And the strong and fearless bear, in the trodden dust 
shall lie ; 

And the dolphin of the sea, and the mighty whale, 
shall die. 

15 


170 


TRANSLATIONS. 


And realms shall be dissolved, and empires be no more, 
An d they shall bow to death, who ruled from shore 
to shore; 

And the great globe itself, so the holy writings tell, 
With the rolling firmament, where the starry armies 
dwell, 

Shall melt with fervent heat — they shall all pass away, 
Except the love of God, which shall live and last for 
aye. 


FROM THE SPANISH OF PEDRO DE CASTRO Y 
ANAYA. 

Stay, rivulet, nor haste to leave 
The lovely vale that lies around thee. 

Why wouldsfc thou be a sea at eve, 

When but a fount the morning found thee \ 

Born when the skies began to glow, 

Humblest of all the rock’s cold daughters, 

No blossom bowed its stalk to show 

Where stole thy still and scanty waters. 

Now on thy stream the noonbeams look, 
Usurping, as thou downward driftest, 

Its crystal from the clearest brook, 

Its rushing current from the swiftest. 

Ah ! what wild haste ! — and all to be 
A river and expire in ocean. 

Each fountain’s tribute hurries thee 
To that vast grave with quicker motion 


SONNET. 


173 


Far better ’twere to linger still 
In this green vale, these flowers to cherish, 
And die in peace, an aged rill, 

Than thus, a youthful Danube, perish. 


SONNET. 

FROM THE PORTUGUESE OF SEMEDO. 

It is a fearful night ; a feeble glare 
Streams from the sick moon in the o’erclouded sky 
The ridgy billows, with a mighty cry, 

Rush on the foamy beaches wild and bare ; 

No bark the madness of the waves will dare ; 

The sailors sleep ; the winds are loud and high 
Ah, peerless Laura I for whose love I die, 

Who gazes on thy smiles while I despair ? 

As thus, in bitterness of heart, I cried, 

I turned, and saw my Laura, kind and bright, 

A messenger of gladness, at my side : 

To my poor bark she sprang with footstep light, 

And as we furrowed Tago’s heaving tide, 

I no'er saw so beautiful a night. 


172 


TKANSLATIONS. 


SONG. 

FROM THE SPANISH OF IGLESIAS. 

Alexis calls me cruel : 

The rifted crags that hold 
The gathered ice of winter, 

He says, are not more cold. 

When even the very blossoms 
Around the fountain’s brim, 
And forest walks, can witness 
The love I bear to him. 

I would that I could utter 
My feelings without shame ; 
Aud tell him how I love him, 
Nor wrong my virgin fame. 

Alas! to seize the moment 
When heart inclines to lit irt. 
And press a suit with passion, 
Is not a woman’s part. 

If man come not to gather 
The roses where they stand, 
They fade among their foliage ; 
They cannot seek his band. 


THE COUNT OF GEEIEES. 


173 


THE COUNT OF GREIERS. 

FROM THE GERMAN OF UHLAND. 

At morn the Count of Greiers before his castle stands , 

He sees afar the glory that lights the mountain lands; 

The horned crags are shining, and in the shade between 

A pleasant Alpine valley lies beautifully green. 

“ Oh, greenest of the valleys, how shall I come to thee 1 

Thy herdsmen and thy maidens, how happy must 
they be 1 

I have gazed upon thee coldly, all lovely as thou art, 

But the wish to walk thy pastures now stirs my in- 
most heart.” 

He hears a sound of timbrels, and suddenly appear 

A troop of ruddy damsels and herdsmen drawing near ; 

They reach the castle greensward, and gayly dance 
across ; 

The white sleeves flit and glimmer, the wreaths and 
ribands toss. 

The youngest of the maidens, slim as a spray of 
spring, 

She takes the young count’s fingers, and draws him to 
the ring, 

They fling upon his forehead a crown of mountain 
flowers, 

* And ho, young Count of Greiers ! this morning thou 
art ours I ” 


174 TRANSLATIONS. 

Then hand in hand departing, with dance and roun- 
delay, 

Through hamlet after hamlet, they lead the Count 
away. 

They dance through wood and meadow, they dance 
across the linn, 

Till the mighty Alpine summits have shut the music in 

The second morn is risen, and now the third is come ; 

Where stays the Count of Greiers ? has he forgot his 
home? 

Again the evening closes, in thick and sultry air ; 

There’s thunder on the mountains, the storm is gath 
ering there. 

The cloud has shed its waters, the brook comes swol 
len down ; 

You see it by the lightning — a river wide and brown. 

Around a struggling swimmer the eddies dash and • 
roar, 

Till, seizing on a willow, he leaps upon the shore. 

“ Here am I cast by tempests far from your mountain 
dell. 

Amid our evening dances the bursting deluge fell 

Ye all, in cots and caverns, have ’scaped the water- 
spout, 

While me alone the tempest o’erwhelmed and hurried 
out. 

“ Farewell, with thy glad dwellers, green vale among 
the rocks! 

Farewell the swift sweet moments, in which I watched 
thy flocks ! 

Why rocked they not my cradle in that delicious spot, 

That garden of the happy, where Heaven endures 
me not ? 


THE SERENADE. 


175 


u Rose of the Alpine valley! I feel, in every vein, 
Thy soft touch on my fingers; oh, press them not 
again ! 

Bewitch me not, ye garlands, to tread that upward 
track, 

And thou, my cheerless mansion, receive thv master 
hack.” 


THE SERENADE. 

FROM THE SPANISH. 

If slumber, sweet Lisena! 

Have stolen o’er thine eyes, 
As night steals o’er the glory 
Of spring’s transparent skies ; 

Wake, in thy scorn and beauty, 
And listen to the strain 
That murmurs my devotion, 
That mourns for thy disdain. 

Here by thy door at midnight, 

I pass the dreary hour, 

With plaintive sounds profaning 
The silence of thy bower ; 

A tale of sorrow cherished 
Too fondly to depart, 

Of wrong from love the flatterer 
And my own wayward heart. 


176 


TRANSLATIONS. 


Twice, o’er this vale, the seasons 
Have brought and borne away 
The January tempest, 

The genial wind of May ; 

Yet, still my plaint is uttered, 

My tears and sighs are given 
To earth’s unconscious waters, 

And wandering winds of heaven. 

I saw, from this fair region, 

The smile of summer pass, 

And myriad frost-stars glitter 
Among the russet grass. 

While winter seized the streamlete 
That fled along the ground, 

And fast in chains of crystal 
The truant murmurers bound. 

I saw that to the forest 

The nightingales had flown, 

And every sweet-voiced fountain 
Had hushed its silver tone. 

The maniac winds, divorcing 
The turtle from his mate, 

Raved through the leafy beeches, 
And left them desolate. 

Now May, with life and music. 

The blooming valley fills, 

And rears her flowery arches 
For all the little rills. 

The minstrel bird of evening 
Comes back on joyous wings, 
And, like the harp’s soft murmur. 
Is heard the gush of springs. 


A NORTHERN LEGEND. 


177 


And deep within the forest 
Are wedded turtles seen, 

Their nuptial chambers seeking, 
Their chambers close and green* 

The rugged trees are mingling 
Their flowery sprays in love ; 

The ivy climbs the laurel, 

To clasp the boughs above. 

They change — but thou, Lisena, 
Art cold while I complain : 

Why to thy lover only 

Should spring return in vain ? 


A NORTHERN LEGEND. 

FROM THE GERMAN OF UHLAND. 

There sits a lovely maiden, 

The ocean murmuring nigh ; 

She throws the hook, and watches ; 
The fishes pass it by. 

A ring, with a red jewel, 

Is sparkling on her hand; 

Upon the hook she binds it, 

And flings it from the land. 

Uprises from the water 
A hand like ivory fair. 

What gleams upon its finger 1 
The golden ring is there. 


178 


TRANSLATIONS. 


Uprises from the bottom 
A young and handsome knight ; 
In golden scales he rises, 

That glitter in the light. 

The maid is pale with terror — 

“ Nay, Knight of Ocean, nay, 

It was not thou I wanted ; 

Let go the ring, I pray.” 

“ Ah, maiden, not to fishes 

The bait of gold is thrown ; 

The ring shall never leave me, 
And thou must be my own.” 


THE PARADISE OF TEARS 

FROM THE GERMAN OF N. MUELLER. 

Beside the River of Tears, with branches low, 
And bitter leaves, the weeping willows grow ; 
The branches stream like the dishevelled hair 
Of women in the sadness of despair. 

On rolls the stream with a perpetual sigh ; 

The rocks moan wildly as it passes by ; 

Hyssop and wormwood border all the strand. 
And not a flower adorns the dreary land. 

Then comes a child, whose face is like the sun, 
And dips the gloomy waters as they run, 

And waters all the region, and behold 
The ground is bright with blossoms manifold. 


THE LADY OF OASTLE WINDECE. 


179 


Where fall the tears of love the rose appears, 

And where the ground is bright with friendship’s tears, 
Forget-me-not, and violets, heavenly blue, 

Spring, glittering with the cheerful drops like dew. 

The souls of mourners, all whose tears are dried, 

Like swans, come gently floating down the tide, 
Walk up the golden sands by which it flows, 

And in that Paradise of Tears repose. 

There every heart rejoins its kindred heart ; 

Tnere, in a long embrace that none may part, 
Fulfilment meets desire, and that fair shore 
Beholds its dwellers happy evermore. 


THE LADY OF CASTLE WINDECK 

FROM THE GERMAN OF CHAMISSO. 

Rein in thy snorting charger ! 

That stag but cheats thy sight ; 

He is luring thee on to Windeck, 

With his seeming fear and flight. 

Now, where the mouldering turrets 
Of the outer gate arise, 

The knight gazed over the ruins 
Where the stag was lost to his eyes. 

The sun shone hot above him ; 

The castle was still as death ; 

He wiped the sweat from his foreuead, 

With a deep and weary breath. 


ISO 


TRANSLATIONS. 


“ Who now will bring me a beaker 
Of the rich old wine that here, 

In the choked-up vaults of Windeck 
Has lain for many a year ? ” 

The careless words had scarcely 
Time from his lips to fall, 

When the Lady of Castle Windeck, 
Came round the ivy-walL 


He saw the glorious maiden 

In her snow-white drapery stands 
The bunch of keys at her girdle, 
The beaker high in her hand. 


He quaffed that rich old vintage ; 

With an eager lip he quaffed; 
But he took into his bosom 

A fire with the grateful draught, 

Her eyes’ unfathomed brightness! 

The flowing gold of her hair l 
He folded his hands in homage, 
And murmured a lover’s prayer. 

She gave him a look of pity, 

A gentle look of pain ; 

And quickly as he had seen her 
She passed from his sight again. 

And ever, from that moment, 

He haunted the ruins there, 

A sleepless, restless wanderer, 

A watcher with despair. 


THE LADY OF CASTLE WDTDEOK. 


181 


Ghost-like and pale he wandered, 
With a dreamy, haggard eye ; 
He seemed not one of the living, 
And yet he could not die. 

*Tis said that the lady met him, 
When many years had past, 
And kissing his lips, released him 
From the burden of life at last. 


10 


LATER POEMS. 


TO THE APENNINES 

Your peaks are beautiful, ye Apennines I 
In the soft light of these serenest skies ; 

From the broad highland region, black with pines. 
Fair as the hills of Paradise they rise, 

Bathed in the tint Peruvian slaves behold 
In rosy flushes on the virgin gold. 

There, rooted to the aerial shelves that wear 
The glory of a brighter world, might spring 
Sweet flowers of heaven to scent the unbreathed air, 
And heaven’s fleet messengers might rest the wing. 
To view the fair earth in its summer sleep, 

Silent, and cradled by the glimmering deep. 

Below you lie men’s sepulchres, the old 
Etrurian tombs, the graves of yesterday ; 

The herd’s white bones lie mixed with human mould, 
Yet up the radiant steeps that I survey 
Death never climbed, nor life’s soft breath, with pain 
Was yielded to the elements again. 


TO THE APENNINES. 


183 


Ages of war have filled these plains with fear • 

How oft the hind has started at the clash 
Of spears, and yell of meeting armies here, 

Or seen the lightning of the battle flash 
From clouds, that rising with the thunder’s sound, 
Hung like an earth-born tempest o’er the ground I 

Ah me ! what armed nations — Asian horde, 

And Libyan host — the Scythian and the Gaul, 
Have swept your base and through your passes poured, 
Like ocean-tides uprising at the call 
Of tyrant winds — against your rocky side 
The bloody billows dashed, and howled, and died. 

How crashed the towers before beleaguering foes, 
Sacked cities smoked and realms were rent in twain 
And commonwealths against their rivals rose, 

Trode out their lives and earned the curse of Cain 
While, in the noiseless air and light that flowed 
Round yo lr fair brows, eternal Peace abode. 

Here pealed the impious hymn, and altar-flames 
Rose to false gods, a dream-begotten throng, 

Jove, Bacchus, Pan, and earlier, fouler names ; 

While, as the unheeding ages passed along, 

Ye, from your station in the middle skies, 

Proclaimed the essential Goodness, strong and wise. 

In you the heart that sighs for freedom seeks 
Her image ; there the winds no barrier know, 
Clouds come and rest and leave your fairy peaks ; 

While even the immaterial Mind, below, 

And Thought, her winged offspring, chained by power 
Pine silently for the redeeming hour- 


184 


LATER POEMS. 


EARTH. 

A midnight black with clouds is in the sky ; 

I seem to feel, upon my limbs, the weight 
Of its vast brooding shadow. All in vain 
Turns the tired eye in search of form ; no star 
Pierces the pitchy veil ; no ruddy blaze, 

From dwellings lighted by the cheerful hearth, 
Tinges the flowering summits of the grass. 

No sound of life is heard, no village hum, 

Nor measured tramp of footstep in the path, 

Nor rush of wing, while, on the breast of Earth, 

I lie and listen to her mighty voice : 

A voice of many tones — sent up from streams 
That wander through the gloom, from woods unseen. 
Swayed by the sweeping of the tides of air, 

From rocky chasms where darkness dwells all day, 
And hollows of the great invisible hills, 

And sands that edge the ocean, stretching far 
Into the night — a melancholy sound 1 

0 Earth ! dost thou too sorrow for the past 
Like man thy offspring? Do I hear thee mourn 
Thy childhood’s unreturning hours, thy springs 
Gone with their genial airs and melodies, 

The gentle generations of thy flowers, 

And thy majestic groves of olden time, 

Perished with all their dwellers ? Dost thou wail 
For that fair age of which the poets tell, 

Ere yet the winds gre^ keen with frost, or fire 
Fell with the rains, or spouted from the hills, 

To blast thy greenness, while the virgin night 
Was guiltless and salubrious as the day? 

Or biply dost thou grieve for those that die — 


EARTH. 


185 


For living things that trod thy paths awhile, 

The love of thee and heaven — and now they sleep 
Mixed with the shapeless dust on which thy herds 
Trample and graze? I too must grieve with thee, 
O’er loved ones lost. Their graves are far away 
Upon thy mountains ; yet, while I recline 
Alone, in darkness, on thy naked soil, 

The mighty nourisher and burial-place 
Of man, I feel that 1 embrace their dust. 

Hal how the murmur deepens 1 I perceive 
And tremble at its dreadful import. Earth 
Uplifts a general cry for guilt and wrong, 

And heaven is listening. The forgotten graves 
Of the heart-broken utter forth their plaint. 

The dust of her who loved and was betrayed, 

And him who died neglected in his age ; 

The sepulchres of those who for mankind 
Labored, and earned the recompense of scorn ; 

Ashes of martyrs for the truth, and bones 
Of those who, in the strife for liberty, 

Were beaten down, their corses given to dogs, 

Their names to infamy, all find a voice. 

The nook in which the captive, overtoiled, 

Lay down to rest at last, and that which holds 
Childhood’s sweet blossoms, crushed by cruel hands, 
Send up a plaintive sound. From battle-fields, 
Where heroes madly drave and dashed their hosts 
Against each other, rises up a noise, 

As if the armed multitudes of dead 

Stirred in their heavy slumber. Mournful tones 

Come from the green abysses of the sea — 

A story of the crimes the guilty sought 

To hide beneath its waves. The glens, the groves, 

Paths in the thicket, pools of running brook, 

And banks and depths of lake, and streets and lanes 
Of cities, now that living sounds are hushed, 

Murmur of guilty force and treachery. 


186 


LATER POEMS. 


Here, where I rest, the vales of Italy 
Are round me, populous from early time, 

And field of the tremendous warfare waged 
’Twixt good and eviL Who, alas, shall dare 
Interpret to man’s ear the mingled voice 
That comes from her old dungeons yawning now 
To the black air, her amphitheatres, 

Where the dew gathers on the mouldering stones, 
And fanes of banished gods, and open tombs, 

And roofless palaces, and streets and hearths 
Of cities dug from their volcanic graves ? 

I hear a sound of many languages, 

The utterance of nations now no more, 

Driven out by mightier, as the days of heaven 
Chase one another from the sky. The blood 
Of freemen shed by freemen, till strange lords 
Came in their hour of weakness, and made fast 
The yoke that yet is worn, cries out to Heaven. 

What then shall cleanse thy bosom, gentle Earth, 
From all its painful memories of guilt ? 

The whelming flood, or the renewing fire, 

Or the slow change of time ? that so, at last, 

The horrid tale of perjury and strife, 

Murder and spoil, which men call history, 

May seem a fable, like the inventions told 
By poets of the gods of Greece. O thou, 

Who sittest far beyond the Atlantic deep, 

Among the sources of thy glorious streams, 

My native Land of Groves ! a newer page 
In the great record of the world is thine ; 

Shall it be fairer ? Fear, and friendly hope, 

And envy, watch the issue, while the lines, 

By which thou shalt be judged, are written dowa 


TTTE KXIGHT’S EPITAPH. 


187 


THE KNIGHT’S EPITAPH. 

This is the church which Pisa, great and free, 
Reared to St. Catharine. How the time-stained walls, 
That earthquakes shook not frcm their poise, appear 
To shiver in the deep and voluble tones 
Rolled from the organ I Underneath my feet 
There lies the lid of a sepulchral vault. 

The image of an armed knight is graven 
Upon it, clad in perfect panoply — 

Cuishes, and greaves, and cuirass, with barred helm, 
Gauntleted hand, and sword, and blazoned shield. 
Around, in Gothic characters, worn dim 
By feet of worshippers, are traced his name, 

And birth, and death, and words of eulogy. 

Why should I pore upon them ? This old tomb. 

This effigy, the strange disused form 

Of this inscription, eloquently show 

His history. Let me clothe in fitting words 

The thoughts they breathe, and frame his epitaph. 

“He whose forgotten dust for centuries 
Has lain beneath this stone, was one in whom 
Adventure, and endurance, and emprise 
Exalted the mind’s faculties and strung 
The body’s sinews. Brave he was in fight. 

Courteous in banquet, scornful of repose, 

And bountiful, and cruel, and devout, 

And quick to draw the sword in private feud. 

He pushed his quarrels to the death, yet prayed 
The 3aints as fervently on bended knees 
As ever shaven cenobite. He loved 
As fiercely as he fought. He would have borne 


188 


LATEE POEMS. 


The maid that pleased him from her bower by night 

To his hill-castle, as the eagle bears 

His victim from the fold, and rolled the rocks 

On his pursuers. He aspired to see 

His native Pisa queen and arbitress 

Of cities : earnestly for her he raised 

His voice in council, and affronted death 

In battle-field, and climbed the galley’s deck, 

And brought the captured flag of Genoa back, 

Or piled upon the Arno’s crowded quay 
The glittering spoils of the tamed Saracen. 

He was not born to brook the stranger’s yoke, 

But would have joined the exiles that withdrew 
For ever, when the Florentine broke in 
The gates of Pisa, and bore off the bolts 
For trophies — but he died before that day 

“ He lived, the impersonation of an age 
That never shall return. His soul of fire 
Was kindled by the breath of the rude time 
He lived in. How a gentler race succeeds. 
Shuddering at blood ; the effeminate cavalier. 
Turning his eyes from the reproachful past, 

And from the hopeless future, gives to ease, 

And love, and music, his inglorious life.” 


THE HUNTER OF THE PRAIRIES. 

Ay, this is freedom! — these pure skies 
Were never stained with village smoke: 
The fragrant wind, that through them flies, 

Is breathed from wastes by plough unbroke. 


TIIE HUNTER OF THE PRAIRIES. 


189 


Here, with. my rifle and my steed, 
And her who left the world for me, 
I plant me, where the red deer feed 
In the green desert — and am free. 


For here the fair savannas know 
No barriers in the bloomy grass; 

Wherever breeze of heaven may blow. 

Or beam of heaven may glance, I pass. 

In pastures, measureless as air, 

The bison is my noble game ; 

The bounding elk, whose antlers tear 
The branches, falls before my aim. 

Mine are the river-fowl that scream 
From the long stripe of waving sedge ; 

The bear that marks my weapon’s gleam, 
Hides vainly in the forest’s edge ; 

In vain the she-wolf stands a,t bay ; 

The brinded catamount, that lies 

High in the boughs to watch his prey, 

Even in the act of springing, dies. 

With what free growth the elm and plane 
Fling their huge arms across my way, 

Gray, old, and cumbered with a train 
Of vines, as huge, and old, and gray ! 

Free stray the lucid streams, and find 
No taint in these fresh lawns and shades ; 

Free spring the flowers that scent the wind 
Where never scythe has swept the glades. 

Alone the Fire, when frost-winds sere 
The heavy herbage of the ground, 

Gathers his annual harvest here, 

With roaring like the battle’s sound. 


LATER POEMS. 


And hurrying flames that sweep the plain. 
And smoke-streams gushing up the sky : 

I meet the flames with flames again, 

And at my door they cower and die. 

Here, from dim woods, the aged past 
Speaks solemnly ; and I behold 

The boundless future in the vast 
And lonely river, seaward rolled. 

Who feeds its founts with rain and dew • 
Who moves, I ask, its gliding mass, 

And trains the bordering vines, whose blue 
Bright clusters tempt me as I pass ? 

Broad are these streams — my steed obeys, 
Plunges, and bears me through the tide. 

Wide are these woods — I thread the maze 
Of giant stems, nor ask a guide. 

I hunt till day’s last glimmer dies 
O’er woody vale and grassy height ; 

And kind the voice and glad the eyes 
That welcome my return at night. 


SEVENTY-SIX. 

What heroes from the woodland sprung, 
When, through the fresh awakened land, 
The thrilling cry of freedom rung, 

And to the work of warfare strung 
The yeoman’s iron handl 


SEVENTY-SIX. 


191 


Hills flung the cry to hills around, 

And ocean-mart replied to mart, 

And streams, whose springs were yet unfound, 
Pealed far away the startling sound 
Into the forest’s heart. 

Then marched the brave from rocky steep, 
From mountain river swift and cold ; 

The borders of the stormy deep, 

The vales where gathered waters sleep, 

Sent up the strong and bold, — 

As if the very earth again 

Grew quick with God’s creating breath, 
And, from the sods of grove and glen, 

Rose ranks of lion-hearted men 
To battle to the death. 

The wife, whose babe first smiled that day, 
The fair fond bride of yestereve, 

And aged sire and matron gray, 

Saw the loved warriors haste away, 

And deemed it sin to grieve. 

Already had the strife begun ; 

Already blood, on Concord’s plain, 

Along the springing grass had run, 

And blood had flowed at Lexington, 

Like brooks of April rain. 

That death-stain on the vernal sward 
Hallowed to freedom all the shore ; 

In fragments fell the yoke abhorred— 

The footstep of a foreign lord 
Profaned the soil no more. 


192 


LATER POEMS. 


THE LIVING LOST 

Matron I tlie children of whose love, 

Each to his grave, in youth have passed 
And now the mould is heaped above 
The dearest and the last I 
Bride ! who dost wear the widow’s veil 
Before the wedding flowers are pale ! 

Ye deem the human heart endures 
No deeper, bitterer grief than yours. 

Yet there are pangs of keener wo, 

Of which the sufferers never speak. 

Nor to the world’s cold pity show 
The tears that scald the cheek, 

Wrung from their eyelids by the shame 
And guilt of those they shrink to name, 
Whom once they loved with cheerful will, 
And love, though fallen and branded, still 

Weep, ye who sorrow for the dead, 

Thus breaking hearts their pain relieve 
And reverenced are the tears ye shed, 
And honored ye who grieve. 

The praise of those who sleep in earth, 
The pleasant memory of their worth, 

The hope to meet when life is past, 

Shall heal the tortured mind at last. 

But ye, who for the living lost 
That agony in secret bear, 

Who shall with soothing words accost 
The strength of your despair ? 


OATTEKSKILL FALLS. 


19S 


Grief for your sake is scorn for them 
Whom ye lament and all condemn; 

And o’er the world of spirits lies 
A gloom from which ye turn your eyes. 


CATTERSKILL FALLS. 

Midst greens and shades the Catterskill leaps. 

From cliffs where the wood-flower clings ; 

All summer he moistens his verdant steeps 
With the sweet light spray of the mountain springs 
And he shakes the woods on the mountain side, 
When they drip with the rains of autumn-tide. 

But when, in the forest bare and old, 

The blast of December calls, 

He builds, in the starlight clear and cold, 

A palace of ice where his torrent falls, 

With turret, and arch, and fretwork fair, 

And pillars blue as the summer air. 

For whom are those glorious chambers wrought, 

In the cold and cloudless night ? 

Is there neither spirit nor motion of thought 
In forms so lovely, and hues so bright ? 

Hear what the gray-haired woodmen tell 
Of this wild stream and its rocky dell. 

Twas hither a youth of dreamy mood-, 

A hundred winters ago, 

Had wandered over the mighty wood, 

When the panther’s track was fresh on the sno w, 
And keen were the winds that came to stir 
The long dark boughs of the hemlock fir. 

11 


194 


LATER POEMS. 


Too gentle of mien he seemed and fair. 

For a child of those rugged steeps ; 

His home lay low in the valley where 
The kingly Hudson rolls to the deeps ; 

But he wore the hunter’s frock that day, 

And a slender gun on his shoulder lay. 

And here he paused, and against the trunk 
Of a tall gray linden leant, 

When the broad clear orb of the sun had sunk 
From his path in the frosty firmament, 

And over the round dark edge of the hill 
A cold green light was quivering still. 

And the crescent moon, high over the green. 
From a sky of crimson shone, 

On that icy palace, whose towers were seen 
To sparkle as if with stars of their own ; 
While the water fell with a hollow sound, 
’Twixt the glistening pillars ranged around. 

Is that a being of life, that moves 
Where the crystal battlements rise ? 

A maiden watching the moon she loves, 

At the twilight hour, with pensive eyes ? 
Was that a garment which seemed to gleam 
Betwixt the eye and the falling stream ? 

'Tis only the torrent tumbling o’er, 

In the midst of those glassy walls, 

Gushing, and plunging, and beating the floor 
Of the rocky basin in which it fulls. 

*Tis only the torrent — but why that start ? 
Why gazes the youth with a throbbing heart 3 

He thinks no more of his home afar, 

Where his sire and sister wait. 

He heeds no longer how star after star 


CATTERSKILL FALLS. 


195 


Looks forth on the night as the hour grows late, 
fie heeds not the snow-wreaths, lifted and cast 
From a thousand boughs, by the rising blast. 

His thoughts are alone of those who dwell 
In the halls of frost and snow. 

Who pass where the crystal domes upswell 
From the alabaster floors below, 

Where the frost-trees shoot with leaf and spray, 

And frost-gems scatter a silvery day. 

“ And oh that those glorious haunts were mine I * 

He -speaks, and throughout the glen 
Thin shadows swim in the faint moonshine, 

And take a ghastly likeness of men, 
as if the slain by the wintry storms 
Came forth to the air in their earthly forms. 

There pass the chasers of seal and whale, 

• With their weapons quaint and grim, 

And bands of warriors in glittering mail. 

And herdsmen and hunters huge of limb. 

There are naked arms, with bow and spear, 

And furry gauntlets the carbine rear. 

There are mothers — and oh how sadly their eyes 
On their children’s white brows rest 1 
There are youthful lovers — the maiden lies. 

In a seeming sleep, on the chosen breast ; 

There are fair wan women with moonstruck air, 

The snow-stars flecking their long loose hair. 

They eye him not as they pass along, 

But his hair stands up with dread, 

When he feels that he moves with that phantom throng 
Till those icy turrets are over his head, 

And the torrent’s roar as they enter seems 
Like a drowsy murmur heard in dreams. 


196 


LATEii POEMS. 


The glittering threshold is scarcely passed, 

When there gathers and wraps him round 
A thick white twilight, sullen and vast, 

In which there is neither form nor sound ; 

The phantoms, the glory, vanish all, 

With the dying voice of the waterfall. 

Slow passes the darkness of that trance, 

And the youth now faintly sees 
Huge shadows and gushes of light that dance 
On a rugged ceiling of unhewn trees, 

And walls where the skins of beasts are hung, 
And rifles glitter on antlers strung. 

On a couch of shaggy skins he lies ; 

As he strives to raise his head, 

Hard-featured woodmen, with kindly eyes, 

Come round him and smooth his furry bed, 
And bid him rest, for the evening star 
Is scarcely set and the day is far. 

They had found at eve the dreaming one 
By the base of that icy steep, 

When over his stiffening limbs begun 
The deadly slumber of frost to creep, 

And they cherished the pale and breathless fcrm, 
Till the stagnant blood ran free and warm. 


THE STItANGE LADY. 


197 


THE STRANGE LADY 

Lhe summer morn is bright and fresh, the birds art 
darting by, 

As if they loved to breast the breeze that sweeps the 
cool clear sky ; 

Young Albert, in the forest’s edge, has heard a rust- 
ling sound, 

An arrow slightly strikes his hand and falls upon the 
ground. 

A dark-haired woman from the wood comes suddenly 
in sight ; 

Her merry eye is full and black, her cheek is brown 
and bright ; 

Her gown is of the mid-sea blue, her belt with beads 
is strung, 

And yet she speaks in gentle tones, and in the Eng 
lish tongue. 

“ It was an idle bolt I sent, against the villain crow ; 

Fair sir, I fear it harmed thy hand ; beshrew my err- 
ing bow ! ” 

“Ah! would that bolt had not been spent! then, 
lady, might I wear 

A lasting token on my hand of one so passing fair ! ” 

“ Thou art a flatterer like the rest, but wouldst thou 
take with me 

A day of hunting in the wilds, beneath the green- 
wood tree, 

I know where most the pheasants feed, and where 
the red-deer herd, 

And thou shouldst chase the nobler game, and I 
bring down the bird.” 


198 


LATEE POEMS. 


Now Albert in her quiver lays the arrow in its place, 

And wonders as he gazes on the beauty of her face : 

“Those hunting-grounds are far away, and, lady, 
’twere not meet 

That night, amid the wilderness, should overtake thy 
feet.” 

“ Heed not the night ; a summer lodge amid the wild 
is mine, — 

’Tis shadowed by the tulip-tree, ’tis mantled by the vine ; 

The wild plum sheds its yellow fruit from fragrant 
thickets nigh, 

And flowery prairies from the door stretch till they 
meet the sky. 

“ There in the boughs that hide the roof the mock- 
bird sits and sings, 

And there the liang-bird’s brood within its little ham- 
mock swings ; 

A pebbly brook, where rustling winds among the 
hopples sweep, 

Shall lull thee till the morning sun looks in upon thy 
sleep.” 

Away, into the forest depths by pleasant paths they go, 

He with his rifle on his arm, the lady with her bow, 

Where cornels arch their cool dark boughs o’er beds 
of winter-green, 

And never at his father’s door again was Albert seen. 

That night upon the woods came down a furious hur- 
ricane, 

With howl of winds and roar of streams, and beating 
of the rain ; 

The mighty thunder broke and drowned the noises in 
its crash ; 

The old trees seemed to fight like fiends beneath 1 
lightning-flash. 


LIFE. 


199 


Next day, 'within a mossy glen, ’mid mouldering tmnks 
were found 

The fragments of a human form upon the bloody 
ground ; 

White bones from which the flesh was torn, and locks 
of glossy hair ; 

They laid them in the place of graves, yet wist not 
whose they were. 

A tid whether famished evening wolves had mangled 
Albert so, 

Or that strange dame so gay and fair were some mys- 
terious foe, 

Or whether to that forest lodge, beyond the moun 
tains blue, 

Ffe went to dwell with her, the friends who mourned 
him never knew. 


LIFE. 

Oh Life ! I breathe thee in the breeze, 

I feel thee bounding in my veins, 

I see thee in these stretching trees, 

These flowers, this still rock’s mossy stains. 

This stream of odors flowing by 

From clover-field and clumps of pine, 

This music, thrilling all the sky, 

From all the morning birds, are thine. 

Thou fill’st with joy this little one, 

That leaps and shouts beside me here, 
Where Isar’s clay-white rivulets run 

Through the dark woods like frighted deer 


200 


LATEE POEMS. 


Ah ! must thy mighty breath, that wakes 
Insect and bird, and flower and tree, 
From the low trodden dust, and makes 
Their daily gladness, pass from me — 


Pass, pulse by pulse, till o’er the ground 
These limbs, now strong, shall creep with pam, 
And this fair world of sight and sound 
Seem fading into night again ? 


The things, oh Life ! thou quickenest, all 
Strive upward towards the broad bright sky. 
Upward and outward, and they fall 
Back to earth’s bosom when they die. 


All that have borne the touch of death. 

All that shall live, lie mingled there, 
Beneath that veil of bloom and breath, 
That living zone ’twixt earth and air. 


There lies my chamber dark and still. 
The atoms trampled by my feet, 
There wait, to take the place I fill 
In the sweet air and sunshine sweet. 


Well, I have had my turn, have been 
Raised from the darkness of the clod, 
And for a glorious moment seen 
The brightness of the skirts of God ; 

And knew the light within my breast, 
Though wavering oftentimes and dim. 
The power, the will, that never rest, 
And cannot die, were all from him. 


“earth’s children oleaye to earth/’ 201 

Dear child J I know that thou wilt grieve 
To see me taken from thy love, 

Wilt seek my grave at Sabbath eve 
And weep, and scatter flowers above. 

Thy little heart will soon be healed, 

And being shall be bliss, till thou 
To younger forms of life must yield 
The place thou fill’st with beauty now. 

When we descend to dust again, 

Where will the final dwelling be 
Of thought and all its memories then, 

My love for thee, and thine for me ? 


• EARTH’S CHILDREN CLEAVE TO EARTH.” 

Earth’s children cleave to Earth — her frail 
Decaying children dread decay. 

Yon wreath of mist that leaves the vale, 

And lessens in the morning ray : 

Look, how, by mountain rivulet, 

It lingers as it upward creeps, 

And clings to fern and copsewood set 
Along the green and dewy steeps : 

Clings to the flowery kalmia, clings 
To precipices fringed with grass, 

Dark maples where the wood-thrush sings, 
And bowers of fragrant sassafras. 

Yet all in vain — it passes still 
From hold to hold, it cannot stay, 

And in the very beams that fill 
The world with glory, wastes away, 


202 


LATER POEMS. 


Till, parting from the mountain’s brow, 
It vanishes from human eye, 

And that which sprung of earth is now 
A portion of the glorious sky. 


THE HUNTER’S VISION 

Upon a rock that, high and sheer, 

Rose from the mountain’s breast. 

A weary hunter of the deer 
Had sat him down to rest, 

And bared to the soft summer air 
His hot red brow and sweaty hair. 

All dim in haze the mountains lay, 

With dimmer vales between ; 

And rivers glimmered on their way, 

By forests faintly seen ; 

While ever rose a murmuring sound, 
From brooks below and bees around. 

He listened, till he seemed to hear 
A strain, so soft and low, 

That whether in the mind or ear 
The listener scarce might know. 

With such a tone, so sweet, so mild, 

The watching mother lulls her chili 

u Thou weary huntsman,” thus it said, 

“ Thou faint with toil and heat, 

The pleasant land of rest is spread 
Before thy very feet, 

And those whom thou wouldst gladly see 
Are waiting there to welcome thee.” 


A. PRESENTIMENT. 


205 


A PRESENTIMENT. 

“ Oh father, let us hence — for hark, 

A fearful murmur shakes the air ; 

The clouds are coming swift and dark ; — 
What horrid shapes they wear 1 
A winged giant sails the sky ; 

Oh father, father, let us fly I ” 

*' Hush, child ; it is a grateful sound. 

That beating of the summer shower ; 
Here, where the boughs hang close around. 

We’ll pass a pleasant hour, 

Till the fresh wind, that brings the rain, 
Has swept the broad heaven clear again.” 

“Nay, father, let us haste — for see, 

That horrid thing with horned brow, — 
His wings o’erhang this very tree, 

He scowls upon us now ; 

His huge black arm is lifted high ; 

Oh father, father, let us fly I ” 

* Hush, child ; ” but, as the father spoke, 
Downward the livid firebolt came, 

Close to his ear the thunder broke, 

And, blasted by the flame, 

The child lay dead ; while dark and still, 
Swept the grim cloud along the hilL 


18 


206 


LATER POEMS. 


THE CHILD’S FUNERAL. 

Fair is thy sight, Sorrento, green thy shore, 

Black crags behind thee pierce the clear blue skies 

The sea, whose borderers ruled the world of yore. 

As clear and bluer still before thee lies. 

Vesuvius smokes in sight, whose fount of fire, 
Outgushing, drowned the cities on his steeps ; 

And murmuring Naples, spire o’ertopping spire, 

Sits on the slope beyond where Virgil sleeps. 

Here doth the earth, with flowers of every hue, 
Heap her green breast when April suns are bright 

Flowers of the morning-red, or ocean-blue, 

Or like the mountain frost of silvery white. 

Currents of fragrance, from the orange tree, 

And sward of violets, breathing to and fro. 

Mingle, and wandering out upon the sea, 

Refresh the idle boatsman where they blow. 

Yet even here, as under harsher climes, 

Tears for the loved and early lost are shed ; 

That soft air saddens with the funeral chimes, 

Those shining flowers are gathered for the dead 

Heie once a child, a smiling playful one. 

All the day long caressing and caressed, 

Died when its little tongue had just begun 
To lisp the names of those it loved the bosk 


THE CHILD’S FUNEBAL. 


207 


The father strove his struggling grief to quell, 

The mother wept as mothers use to weep, 

Two little sisters wearied them to tell 
When their dear Carlo would awake from sleep. 

Within an inner room his couch they spread, 

His funeial couch; with mingled grief and love, 
They laid a crown of roses on his head, 

And murmured, “ Brighter is his crown above.” 

They scattered round him, on the snowy sheet, 
Laburnum’s strings of sunny-colored gems, 

Sad hyacinths, and violets dim and sweet, 

And oiange-blossoms on their dark green stems. 

And now the hour is come, the priest is there; 

Torches are lit and bells are tolled ; they go, 
With solemn rites of blessing and of prayer, 

To lay the little one in earth below. 

The door is opened; hark! that quick glad cry; 

Carlo has waked, has waked, and is at play ; 

The little sisters laugh and leap, and try 
To climb the bed on which the infant lay. 

And there he sits alive, and gayly shakes 
In his full hands, the blossoms red and white, 
knd smiles with winking eyes, like one who wakes 
From long deep slumbers at the morning light 


208 


LATEE POEMS. 


THE BATTLE-FIELD 

Once this soft turf, this rivulet’s sands, 

Were trampled by a hurrying crowd, 

And fiery hearts and armed hands 
Encountered in the battle-cloud. 

Ah ! never shall the land forget 

How gushed the life-blood of her brave — 

Gushed, warm with hope and courage yet. 
Upon the soil they fought to save. 

Now all is calm, and fresh, and still, 

Alone the chirp of flitting bird, 

And talk of children on the hill, 

And bell of wandering kine are heard. 

No solemn host goes trailing by 

The black-mouthed gun and staggering wain 

Men start not at the battle-cry, 

Oh, be it never heard again ! 

Soon rested those who fought ; but thou 
Who minglest in the harder strife 

For truths which men receive not now. 

Thy warfare only ends with life. 

A friendless warfare! lingering lrng 
Through weary day and weary year. 

A wild and many-weaponed throng 
Hang on thy front, and flank, and rear. 


THE FUTURE LIFE. 


209 


Yet nerve thy spirit to the proof, 

And blench not at thy chosen lot. 

The timid good may stand aloof, 

The sage may frown — yet faint thou not. 

Nor heed the shaft too surely cast, 

The foul and hissing bolt of scorn ; 

For with thy side shall dwell, at last, 

The victory of endurance born. 

Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again ; 
The eternal years of God are hers ; 

But Error, wounded, writhes in pain, 

And dies among his worshippers. 

Yea, though thou lie upon the dust, 

When they who helped thee flee in fear. 

Die full of hope and manly trust, 

Like those who fell in battle here. 

Another hand thy sword shall wield, 
Another hand the standard wave, 

Till from the trumpet’s mouth is pealed 
The blast of triumph o’er thy grave. 


THE FUTURE LIFE. 

How shall I know thee in the sphere which keeps 
The disembodied spirits of the dead, 

When all of thee that time could wither sleeps 
And perishes among the dust we tread I 


210 


LATER POEMS. 


For I shall feel the sting of ceaseless pain 
If there I meet thy gentle presence not ; 

Nor hear the voice I love, nor read again 
In thy sercnest eyes the tender thought. 

Will not thy own meek heart demand me there ? 
That heart whose fondest throbs to me were given 

My name on earth was ever in thy prayer, 

And wilt thou never utter it in heaven ? 

In meadows fanned by heaven’s life-breathing wind. 
In the resplendence of that glorious sphere, 

And larger movements of the unfettered mind, 

Wilt thou forget the love that joined us here ? 

The love that lived through all the stormy past. 
And meekly with my harsher nature boie, 

And deeper grew, and tenderer to the last, 

Shall it expire with life, and be no more ? 

A happier lot than mine, and larger light, 

Await thee there ; for thou hast bowed thy will 

In cheerful homage to the rule of right, 

And lovest all, and renderest good for ill. 

For me, the sordid cares in which I dwell, 

Shrink and consume my heart, as heat the scroll ; 

And wrath has left its scar — that fire of hell 
Has left its frightful scar upon my souk 

Yet though thou wear’sb the glory of the sky, 

Wilt thou not keep the same beloved name, 

The same fair thoughtf ul brow, and gentle eye, 
Lovelier in heaven’s sweet climate, yet the samel 

Shalt thou not teach me, in that calmer home, 

The wisdom that I learned so ill in this — 

The wisdom which is love — till I become 
Thy fit companion in that land of bliss? 


THE DEATH OF SCHILLER. 


THE DEATH OF SCHILLER. 

"Tis said, when Schiller’s death drew nigh, 
The wish possessed his mighty mind, 

To wander forth wherever lie 

The homes and haunts of human-kind. 

Then strayed the poet, in his dreams, 

By Rome and Egypt’s ancient graves; 

Went up the New World’s forest streams, 
Stood in the Hindoo’s temple-caves; 

Walked with the Pawnee, fierce and stark, 
The sallow Tartar, midst his herds, 

The peering Chinese, and the dark 
False Malay uttering gentle words. 

How could he rest? even then he trod 
The threshold of the world unknown ; 

Already, from the seat of God, 

A ray upon his garments shone ; — 

Shone and awoke the strong desire 

For love and knowledge reached not herc^ 

Till, freed by death, his soul of fire 
Sprang to a fairer, ampler sphere. 


212 


LATER POEMS. 


THE FOUNTAIN. 

Fountain, that springest on this grassy slope, 

Thy quick cool murmur mingles pleasantly, 

With the cool sound of breezes in the beech, 

Above me in the noontide. Thou dost wear 
No stain of thy dark birthplace ; gushing up 
From the red mould and slimy roots of earth, 

Thou flashest in the 3un. The mountain air, 

In winter, is not clearer, nor the dew 

That shines on mountain blossom. Thus doth God 

Bring, from the dark and foul, the pure and bright 

This tangled thicket on the bank above 
Thy basin, how thy waters keep it green ! 

For thou dost feed the roots of the wild vine 
That trails all over it, and to the twigs 
Ties fast her clusters. There the spice-bush lifts 
Her leafy lances ; the viburnum there, 

Paler of foliage, to the sun holds up 
Her circlet of green berries. In and out 
The chipping sparrow, in her coat of brown, 

Steals silently, lest I should mark her nest. 

Not such thou wert of yore, ere yet the axe 
Had smitten the old woods. Then hoary trunks 
Of oak, and plane, and hickory, o’er thee held 
A mighty canopy. When April winds 
Grew soft, the maple burst into a flush 
Of scarlet flowers. The tulip-tree, high up, 
Opened, in airs of June, her multitude 
Of golden chalices to humming-birds 
And silken-winged insects of the sky. 


THE FOUNTAIN. 


213 


Frail wood-plants clustered round thy edge in Spring. 
The liverleaf put forth her sister blooms 
Of faintest blue. Here the quick-footed wolf, 
Passing to lap thy waters, crushed the flower 
Of sanguinaria, from whose brittle stem 
The red drops fell like blood. The deer, too, left 
Her delicate foot-print in the soft moist mould, 

And on the fallen leaves. The slow-paced bear, 

In such a sultry summer noon as this, 

Stopped at thy stream, and drank, and leaped across. 


But thou hast histories that stir the heart 
With deeper feeling ; while I look on thee 
They rise before me. I behold the scene 
Hoary again with forests ; I behold 
The Indian warrior, whom a hand unseen 
Has smitten with his death-wound in the woods, 
Creep slowly to thy well-known rivulet, 

And slake his death-thirst. Hark, that quick fierce crv 
That rends the utter silence ; ’tis the whoop 
Of battle, and a throng of savage men 
With naked arms and faces stained like blood, 

Fill the green wilderness ; the long bare arms 
Are heaved aloft, bows twang and arrows stream ; 
Each makes a tree his shield, and every tree 
Sends forth its arrow. Fierce the fight and short, 

As is the whirlwind. Soon the conquerors 
And conquered vanish, and the dead remain 
Mangled by tomahawks. The mighty woods 
Are still again, the frighted bird comes back 
And plumes her wings ; but thy sweet waters run 
Crimson with blood. Then, as the sun goes down, 
Amid the deepening twilight I descry 
Figures of men that crouch and creep unheard, 

And bear away the dead. The next day’s shower 
Shall wash the tokens of the fight away. 


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LATER POEMS. 


I look again — a hunter’s lodge is built, 

With poles and boughs, beside thy crystal well, 

While the meek autumn stains the woods with gold. 
And sheds his golden sunshine. To the door 
The red man slowly drags the enormous bear 
Slain in the chestnut thicket, or flings down 
The deer from his strong shoulders. Shaggy fells 
Of wolf and cougar hang upon the walls, 

And loud the black-eyed Indian maidens laugh, 

That gather, from the rustling heaps of leaves, 

The hickory’s white nuts, and the dark fruit. 

That falls from the gray butternut’s long boughs. 

So centuries passed by, and still the woods 
Blossomed in spring, and reddened when the year 
Grew chill, and glistened in the frozen rains 
Of winter, till the white man swung the axe 
Beside thee — signal of a mighty change. 

Then all around was heard the crash of trees, 
Trembling awhile and rushing to the ground, 

The low of ox, and shouts of men who fired 
The brushwood, or who tore the earth with ploughs 
The grain sprang thick and tall, and hid in green 
The blackened hill-side ; ranks of spiky maize 
Rose like a host embattled ; the buckwheat 
Whitened broad acres, sweetening with its flowers 
The August wind. White cottages were seen 
With rose-trees at the windows ; barns from which 
Came loud and shrill the crowing of the cock ; 
Pastures where rolled and neighed the lordly horse, 
And white flocks browsed and bleated. A rich turf 
Of grasses brought from far o’ercrept thy bank, 
Spotted with the white clover. Blue-eyed girls 
Brought pails, and dipped them in thy crystal pool ; 
And children, ruddy-cheeked and flaxen-haired, 
Gathered the glistening cowslip from thy edge. 

Since then, what steps have trod thy border 1 Here 
On thy green bank, the woodman of the swamp 


THE FOUNTAIN. 


215 


Has laid his axe, the reaper of the hill 
His sickle, as they stooped to taste thy stream. 
The sportsman, tired with wandering in the still 
September noon, has bathed his heated brow 
In thy cool current. Shouting boys, let loose 
For a wild holiday, have quaintly shaped 
Into a cup the folded linden leaf, 

And dipped thy sliding crystal. From the wars 
Returning, the plumed soldier by thy side 
Has sat, and mused how pleasant ’twere to dwell 
In such a spot, and be as free as thou, 

And move for no man’s bidding more. At eve, 
When thou wert crimson with the crimson sky, 
Lovers have gazed upon thee, and have thought 
Their mingled lives should flow as peacefully 
And brightly as thy waters. Here the sage, 
Gazing into thy self-replenished depth, 

Has seen eternal order circumscribe 
And bind the motions of eternal change, 

And from the gushing of thy simple fount 
Has reasoned to the mighty universe. 

Is there no other change for thee, that lurks 
Among the future ages ? Will not man 
Seek out strange arts to wither and deform 
The pleasant landscape which thou makest green f 
Or shall the veins that feed thy constant stream 
Be choked in middle earth, and flow no more 
For ever, that the water-plants along 
Thy channel perish, and the bird in vain 
Alight to drink? Ilaply shall these green hills 
Sink, with the lapse of years, into the gulf 
Of ocean waters, and thy source be lost 
Amidst the bitter brine ? Or shall they rise, 
Upheaved in broken cliffs and airy peaks, 

Haunts of the eagle and the snake, and thou 
Gush midway from the bare and barren steep f 


216 


LATER POEMS. 


THE WINDS 

L 

Ye winds, ye unseen currents of the air, 

Softly ye played a few brief hours ago ; 

Ye bore the murmuring bee; ye tossed the hair 
O'er maiden cheeks, that took *a fresher glow; 

Y e rolled the round white cloud through depths of blue ; 
Y e shook from shaded flowers the lingering dew ; 
Before you the catalpa’s blossoms flew, 

Light blossoms, dropping on the grass like snow. 


How are ye changed 1 Ye take the cataract’s sound ; 

Ye take the whirlpool’s fury and its might; 

The mountain shudders as ye sweep the ground; 

The valley woods lie prone beneath your flight. 
The clouds before you shoot like eagles past ; 

The homes of men are rocking in your blast; 

Ye lift the roofs like autumn leaves, and cast, 
Skyward, the whirling fragments out of sight 

IIL 

The weary fowls of heaven make wing in vain, 

To escape your wrath ; ye seize and dash them dead 
Against the earth yc drive the roaring rain; 

The harvest-field becomes a river’s bed ; 

And torrents tumble from the hills around, 

Plains turn to lakes, and villages are drowned, 

And wailing voices, midst the tempest’s sound, 

Rise, as the rushing waters swell and spread 


THE WENDS. 


217 


IV. 

Ye dart upon the deep, and straight is heard 
A wilder roar, and men grow pale, and pray; 

Ye fling its floods around you, as a bird 
Flings o’er his shivering plumes the fountain’s spray. 
See ! to the breaking mast the sailor clings ; 

Ye scoop the ocean to its briny springs, 

And take the mountain billow on your wings, 

And pile the wreck of navies round the bay. 


v. 

Why rage ye thus ? — no strife for liberty 

Has made you mad ; no tyrant, strong through fear, 

Has chained your pinions till ye wrenched them free, 
And rushed into the unmeasured atmosphere ; 

For ye were born in freedom where ye blow ; 

Free o’er the mighty deep to come and go ; 

Earth’s solemn woods were yours, her wastes of snow 
Her isles where summer blossoms all the year. 

VL 

O ye wild winds ! a mightier Power than yours 
In chains upon the shore of Europe lies; 

The sceptred throng, whose fetters he endures, 

Watch his mute throes with terror in their eyes: 

And armed warriors all around him stand, 

And, as he struggles, tighten every band, 

And lift the heavy spear, with threatening hand, 

To pierce the victim, should he strive to rise. 


vn. 

Yet oh, when that wronged Spirit of our race 
Shall break, as soon he must, his long-worn cnains, 
And leap in freedom from his prison-place. 

Lord of his ancient hills and fruitful plains, 

19 


218 


LATER POEMS. 


Let him not rise, like these mad winds of air, 

To waste the loveliness that time could spare. 

To fill the earth with wo, and blot her fair 

Unconscious breast with blood from human veins 

vm. 

But may he like the spring-time come abroad, 

Who crumbles winter’s gyves with gentle might, 
When in the genial breeze, the breath of God, 

Come spouting up the unsealed springs to light ; 
Flowers start from their dark prisons at his feet, 

The woods, long dumb, awake to hymnings sweet, 
And morn and eve, whose glimmerings almost meet. 
Crowd back to narrow bounds the ancient night. 


THE OLD MAN’S COUNSEL. 

Among our hills and valleys, I have known 
Wise and grave men, who, while their diligent hands 
Tended or gathered in the fruits of earth, 

Were reverent learners in the solemn school 
Of nature. Not in vain to them were sent 
Seed-time and harvest, or the vernal shower 
That darkened the brown tilth, or snow that beat 
On the white winter hills. Each brought, in turn, 
Some truth, some lesson on the life of man, 

Or recognition of the Eternal mind 
Who veils his glory with the elements. 

One such I knew long since, a white-haired man. 
Pithy of speech, and merry when he would ; 

A genial optimist, who daily drew 
From what he saw his quaint moralities. 


THE OLD MAN’S COUNSEL. 


219 


Kindly he held communion, though so old, 

With me a dreaming boy, and taught me much 
That books tell not, and I shall ne’er forget. 

The sun of May was bright in middle heaven, 

And steeped the sprouting forests, the green bilk 
And emerald wheat-fields, in his yellow light. 

Upon the apple-tree, where rosy buds 
Stood clustered, ready to burst forth in bloom, 

The robin warbled forth his full clear note 
For hours, and wearied not. Within the woods, 
Whose young and half transparent leaves scarce cast 
A shade, gay circles of anemones 
Danced on their stalks; the shadbush, white with 
flowers, 

Brightened the glens ; the new-leaved butternut 

And quivering poplar to the roving breeze 

Gave a balsamic fragrance. In the fields 

I saw the pulses of the gentle wind 

On the young grass. My heart was touched with joy 

At so much beauty, flushing every hour 

Into a fuller beauty ; but my friend, 

The thoughtful ancient, standing at my side, 

Gazed on it mildly sad. I asked him why. 

“ Well mayst thou join in gladness,” he replied, 
“With the glad earth, her springing plants and flowers, 
And this soft wind, the herald of the green 
Luxuriant summer. Thou art young like them, 

And well mayst thou rejoice. But while the flight 
Of seasons fills and knits thy spreading frame, 

It withers mine, and thins my hair, and dims 
These eyes, whose fading light shall soon be quenched 
In utter darkness. Hearest thou that bird f ” 

I listened, and from midst the depth of woods 
Heard the love-signal of the grouse, that wears 
A sable ruff around his mottled neck ; 


320 


LATEK POEMS. 


Partridge they call him by our northern streams, 
And pheasant by the Delaware. He beat 
’Gainst his barred sides his speckled wings, and made 
A sound like distant thunder ; slow the strokes 
At first, then fast and faster, till at length 
They passed into a murmur and were still. 

“ There hast thou,” said my friend, “ a fitting type 
Of human life. ’Tis an old truth, I know. 

But images like these revive the power 
Of long familiar truths. Slow pass our days 
In childhood, and the hours of light are long 
Betwixt the morn and eve ; with swifter lapse 
They glide in manhood, and in age they fly ; 

Till days and seasons flit before the mind 
As flit the snow-flakes in a winter storm, 

Seen rather than distinguished. Ah ! I seem 
As if I sat within a helpless bark, 

By swiftly running waters hurried on 
To shoot some mighty cliff. Along the banks 
Grove after grove, rock after frowning rock, 

Bare sands and pleasant homes, and flowery nooks, 

And isles and whirlpools in the stream, appear 

Each after each, but the devoted skiff 

Darts by so swiftly that their images 

Dwell not upon the mind, or only dwell 

In dim confusion ; faster yet I sweep 

By other banks, and the great gulf is near. 

“ Wisely, my son, while yet thy days are long, 
And this fair change of seasons passes slow, 

Gather and treasure up the good they yield — 

All that they teach of virtue, of pure thoughts 
And kind affections, reverence for thy God 
And for thy brethren ; so when thou slialt come 
Into these barren years, thou mayst not bring 
A mind unfurnished and a withered heart.” 


IN MEMORY OF WILLIAM LEGGETT. 221 


Long since that white-haired ancient slept — but still, 
When the red flower-buds crowd the orchard bough, 
And the ruffed grouse is drumming far within 
The woods, his*venerable form again 
Is at my side, his voice is in my ear. 


IN MEMORY OF WILLIAM LEGGETT. 

The earth may ring from shore to shore, 
With echoes of a glorious name, 

But he, whose loss our tears deplore, 

Has left behind him more than fame. 

For when the death-frost came to lie 
On Leggett’s warm and mighty heart, 
And quenched his bold and friendly eye. 
His spirit did not all depart. 

The words of fire that from his pen 
Were flung upon the fervent page, 

Still move, still shake the hearts of men. 
Amid a cold and coward age. 

His love of truth, too warm, too strong 
For Hope or Fear to chain or chill, 

His hate of tyranny and wrong, 

Burn in the breasts he kindled still. 


222 


LATER POEMS. 


AN EVENING KEYERY. 

The summer day is closed — the sun is set : 

Well they have done their office, those bright hours, 
The latest of whose train goes softly out 
In the red West. The green blade of the ground 
Has risen, and herds have cropped it ; the young twig 
Has spread its plaited tissues to the sun ; 

Flowers of the garden and the waste have blown 
And withered ; seeds have fallen upon the soil. 

From bursting cells, and in their graves await 
Their resurrection. Insects from the pools 
Have filled the air awhile with humming wings, 

That now are still for ever ; painted moths 
Have wandered the blue sky, and died again ; 

The mother-bird hath broken for her brood 
Their prison shell, or shoved them from the nest, 
Plumed for their earliest flight. In bright alcoves. 
In woodland cottages with barky walls, 

In noisome cells of the tumultuous town, 

Mothers have clasped with joy the new-born babe. 
Graves by the lonely forest, by the shore 
Of rivers and of ocean, by the ways 
Of the thronged city, have been hollowed out 
And filled, and closed. This day hath parted friends 
That ne’er before were parted ; it hath knit 
New friendships; it hath seen the maiden plight 
Her faith, and trust her peace to him who long 
Had wooed ; and it hath heard, from lips which late 
Were eloquent with love, the first harsh word, 

That told the wedded one her peace was flown. 
Farewell to the sweet sunshine ! One glad day 
Is added now to Childhood’s merry days, 

And one calm day to those of quiet Age. 


AN EVENING EEVEEY. 


223 


Still the fleet hours run on ; and as I lean, 

Amid the thickening darkness, lamps are lit, 

By those who watch the dead, and those who twine 
Flowers for the bride. The mother from the eyes 
Of her sick infant shades the painful light, 

And sadly listens to his quick-drawn breath. 

Oh thou great Movement of the Universe, 

Or Change, or Flight of Time — for ye are one! 

That bearest, silently, this visible scene 
Into night’s shadow and the streaming rays 
Of starlight, whither art thou bearing me ? 

I feel the mighty current sweep me on, 

Yet know not whither. Man foretells afar 
The courses of the stars ; the very hour 
He knows when they shall darken or grow bright ; 
Yet doth the eclipse of Sorrow and of Death 
Come unforewarned. Who next, of those I love, 
Shall pass from life, or, sadder yet, shall fall 
From virtue ? Strife with foes, or bitterer strife 
With friends, or shame and general scorn of men— 
Which who can bear ?— or the fierce rack of pain, 
Lie they within my path ? Or shall the years 
Push me, with soft and inoffensive pace, 

Into the stilly twilight of my age ? 

Or do the portals of another life 

Even now, while I am glorying in my strength, 

Impend around me ? Oh! beyond that bourne. 

In the vast cycle of being which begins 
At that broad threshold, with what fairer forms 
Shall the great law of change and progress clothe 
Its workings ? Gently — so have good men taught— 
Gently, and without grief, the old shall glide 
Into the new ; the eternal flow of things, 

Like a bright river of the fields of heaven, 

Shall journey onward in perpetual peace. 


224 


LATER POEMS. 


THE PAINTED CUP. 

The fresh savannas of the Sangamon 
Here rise in gentle swells, and the long grass 
Is mixed with rustling hazels. Scarlet tufts 
Are glowing in the green, like flakes of fire , 

The wanderers of the prairie know them well, 
And call that brilliant flower the Painted Cup. 

Now, if thou art a poet, tell me not 
That these bright chalices were tinted thus 
To hold the dew for fairies, when they meet 
On moonlight evenings in the hazel bowers, 

A.nd dance till they are thirsty. Call not up, 
Amid this fresh and virgin solitude, 

The faded fancies of an elder world ; 

But leave these scarlet cups to spotted moths 
Of June, and glistening flies, and humming-birds, 
To drink from, when on all these boundless lawns 
The morning sun looks hot. Or let the wind 
O’erturn in sport their ruddy brims, and pour 
A sudden shower upon the strawberry plant, 

To swell the reddening fruit that even now 
Breathes a slight fragrance from the sunny slope. 

But thou art of a gayer fancy. Well — 

Let then the gentle Manitou of flowers, 

Lingering amid the bloomy waste he loves, 
Though all his swarthy worshippers are gone — 
Slender and small, his rounded cheek all brown 
And ruddy with the sunshine ; let him come 
On summer mornings, when the blossoms wake, 
And part with little hands the spiky grass ; 

And touching, with his cherry lips, the edge 
Of these bright beakers, drain the gathered dew. 


A DEEAM. 


226 


A DREAM. 

I uad a dream — a strange, wild dream— 

Said a dear voice at early light ; 

And even yet its shadows seem 
To linger in my waking sight. 

Earth, green with spring, and fresh with dew 
And bright with morn, before me stood ; 
And airs just wakened softly blew 
On the young blossoms of the wood. 


Birds sang within the sprouting shade, 

Bees hummed amid the whispering grass. 
And children prattled as they played 
Beside the rivulet’s dimpling glass. 


Fast climbed the sun : the flowers were flown. 
There played no children in the glen ; 

For some were gone, and some were grown 
To blooming dames and bearded men. 


’Twas noon, ’twas summer : I beheld 
Woods darkening in the flush of day, 
And that bright rivulet spread and swelled, 
A mighty stream, with creek and bay. 


And here was love, and there was strife, 
And mirthful shouts, and wrathful cries, 
And strong men, struggling as for life, 
With knotted limbs and angry eyes. 


226 


LATEE POEMS. 


Now stooped the sun — the shades grew thin ; 

The rustling paths were piled with leaves*, 
And sunburnt groups were gathering in, 

From the shorn field, its fruits and sheaves 

The river heaved with sullen sounds ; 

The chilly wind was sad with moans ; 

Black hearses passed, and burial-grounds 
Grew thick with monumental stones. 

.Still waned the day ; the wind that chased 
The jagged clouds blew chiller yet ; 

The woods were stripped, the fields were waste 
The wintry sun was near his set. 

And of the young, and strong, and fair, 

A lonely remnant, gray and weak, 

Lingered, and shivered to the air 
Of that bleak shore and water bleak. 

Ah! age is drear, and death is cold! 

I turned to thee, for thou wert near, 

And saw thee withered, bowed, and old, 

And woke all faint with sudden fear. 

*Twas thus I heard the dreamer say, 

And bade her clear her clouded brow ; 

“For thou and I, since childhood’s day, 

Have walked in such a dream till now. 

“ Watch we in calmness, as they rise, 

The changes of that rapid dream. 

And note its lessons, till our eyes 
Shall open in the morning beam.*’ 


THE ANTIQUITY OP FREEDOM. 


227 


THE- ANTIQUITY OF FREEDOM. 

Here are old trees, tall oats and gnarled pines, 

I'll at stream with gray-green mosses ; here the ground 
Was never trenched by spade, and flowers spring up 
Unsown, and die ungathered. It is sweet 
To linger here, among the flitting birds 
And leaping squirrels, wandering brooks, and winds 
That shake the leaves, and scatter, as they pass, 

A fragrance from the cedars, thickly set 

With pale blue berries. In these peaceful shades — 

Peaceful, unpruned, immeasurably old — 

My thoughts go up the long dim path of years, 

Back to the earliest days of liberty. 

Oh Freedom 1 thou art not, as poets dream, 

A fair young girl, with light and delicate limbs, 

And wavy tresses gushing from the cap 

With which the Roman master crowned his slave 

When he took off the gyves. A bearded man, 

Armed tc the teeth, art thou ; one mailed hand 
Grasps the broad shield, and one the sword ; thy brow, 
Glorious in beauty though it be, is scarred 
With tokens of old wars ; thy massive limbs 
Are strong with struggling. Power attheehas launched 
His bolts, and with his lightnings smitten thee; 

They could not quench the life thou hast from heaven. 
Merciless power has dug thy dungeon deep, 

And his swart armorers, by a thousand fires, 

Have forged thy chain ; yet, while he deems thee bound 
The links are shivered, and the prison walls 
Fall outward ; terribly thou springest forth, 


228 


LATER POEMS. 


As springs the flame above a burning pile. 

And shoutest to the nations, who return 
Thy shoutings, while the pale oppressor flies. 

Thy birthright was not given by human hands : 
Thou wert twin-born with man. In pleasant fields, 
While yet our race was few, thou sat’st with him, 

To tend the quiet flock and watch the stars, 

And teach the reed to utter simple airs. 

Thou by his side, amid the tangled wood, 

Didst war upon the panther and the wolf, 

His only foes ; and thou with him didst draw 
The earliest furrow on the mountain side, 

Soft with the deluge. Tyranny himself, 

Thy enemy, although of reverend look, 

Hoary with many years, and far obeyed, 

Is later born than thou ; and as he meets 
The grave defiance of thine elder eye 
The usurper trembles in his fastnesses. 

Thou shalt wax stronger with the lapse of years 
But he shall fade into a feebler age ; 

Feebler, yet subtler. He shall weave his snares, 

And spring them on thy careless steps, and clap 
His withered hands, and from their ambush call 
His hordes to fall upon thee. He shall send 
Quaint maskers, wearing fair and gallant forms 
To catch thy gaze, and uttering graceful words 
To charm thy ear ; while his sly imps, by stealth, 
Twine round thee threads of steel, light thread on thread 
That grow to fetters ; or bind down thy arms 
With chains concealed in chaplets. Oh I not yet 
Mayst thou unbrace thy corslet, nor lay by 
Thy sword ; nor yet, O Freedom ! close thy lids 
In slumber ; for thine enemy never sleeps, 

And thou must watch and combat till the day 
Of the new earth and heaven. But wouldst thou rest 
Awhile from tumult and the frauds of men. 


THE MAIDEN’S SOKKOW. 


229 


These old and friendly solitudes invite 
Thy visit. They, while yet the forest trees 
Were young upon the un violated earth, 

And yet the moss-stains on the rock were new, 
Beheld thy glorious childhood, and rejoiced. 


THE MAIDEN’S SORROW. 

Seven long years has the desert rain 
Dropped on the clods that hide thy face ; 

Seven long years of sorrow and pain 
I have thought of thy burial-place. 

Thought of thy fate in the distant west, 
Dying with none that loved thee near 

They who flung the earth on thy breast 
Turned from the spot without a tear. 

There, I think, on that lonely grave, 
Violets spring in the soft May shower ; 

There, in the summer breezes, wave 
Crimson phlox and moccasin flower. 

There the turtles alight, and there 
Feeds with her fawn the timid doe ; 

There, when the winter woods are bare, 

V alks the wolf on the crackling snow 

Soon wilt thou wipe my tears away ; 

Al l my task upon earth is done ; 

My poor father, old and gray, 

Slumbers beneath the churchyard stone. 

20 


230 


LATEE POEMS. 


In the dreams of my lonely bed, 

Ever thy form before me seems. 

All night long I talk with the dead, 

All day long I think of my dreams. 

This deep wound that bleeds and aches, 
This long pain, a sleepless pain — 
When the Father my spirit takes, 

I shall feel it no more again. 


THE RETURN OF YOUTH. 

Mi friend, thou sorrowest for thy golden prime, 

Bor thy fair youthful years too swift of flight ; 

Thou musest, with wet eyes, upon the time 

Of cheerful hopes that filled the world with light,— 

Years when thy heart was bold, thy hand was strong, 
And quick the thought that moved thy tongue tc 
speak, 

And willing faith was thine, and scorn of wrong 
Summoned the sudden crimson to thy cheek. 

Thou lookest forward on the coming days, 
Shuddering to feel their shadow o’er thee oreep ; 

A path, thick-set with changes and decays, 

Slopes downward to the place of common sleep ; 

And they who walked with thee in life’s first stage, 
Leave one by one thy side, and, waiting near, 

Thou seest the sad companions of thy age — 

Dull love of rest, and weariness and fear. 


A HYMN OF THE SEA. 


231 


Yet grieve thou not, nor think thy youth is gone. 

Nor deem that glorious season e’er could die. 

Thy pleasant youth, a little while withdrawn, 

Waits on the horizon of a brighter sky; 

Waits, like the morn, that folds her wing and hides, 
Till the slow stars bring back her dawning hour ; 

Waits, like the vanished spring, that slumbering bides 
Her own sweet time to waken bud and flower. 

There shall he welcome thee, when thou shalt stand 
On his bright morning hills, with smiles more sweet 

Than when at first he took thee by the hand, 
Through the fair earth to lead thy tender feet. 

He shall bring back, but brighter, broader still, 

Life’s early glory to thine eyes again, 

Shall clothe thy spirit with new strength, and fill 
Thy leaping heart with warmer love than then. 

Hast thou not glimpses, in the twilight here, 

Of mountains where immortal morn prevails ? 

Comes there not, through the silence, to thine ear 
A gentle rustling of the morning gales ; 

A murmur, wafted from that glorious shore, 

Of streams that water banks for ever fair. 

And voices of the loved ones gone before. 

More musical in that celestial air ? 


A HYMN OF THE SEa. 

The sea is mighty, but a mightier sways 
His restless billows. Thou, whose hands have scooped 
His boundless gulfs and built his shore, thy breath, 
That moved in the beginning o’er his face, 


232 


LATEE POEMS. 


Moves o’er it evermore. Tlie obedient waves 
To its strong motion roll, and rise and fall. 

Still from that realm of rain thy cloud goes up, 

As at the first, to water the great earth, 

And keep her valleys green. A hundred realms 
Watch its broad shadow warping on the wind, 
And in the dropping shower, with gladness hear 
Thy promise of the harvest. I look forth 
Over the boundless blue, where joyously 
The bright crests of innumerable waves 
Glance to the sun at once, as when the hands 
Of a great multitude are upward flung 
In acclamation. I behold the ships 
Gliding from cape to cape, from isle to isle, 

Or stemming toward far lands, or hastening home 
From the old world. It is thy friendly breeze 
That bears them, with the riches of the land, 

And treasure of dear lives, till, in the port, 

The shouting seaman climbs and furls the sail. 


But who shall bide thy tempest, who shall face 
The blast that wakes the fury of the sea? 

Oh Godl thy justice makes the world turn pale. 
When on the armed fleet, that royally 
Bears down the surges, carrying war, to smite 
Borne city, or invade some thoughtless realm, 
Descends the fierce tornado. The vast hulks 
Are whirled like chaff upon the waves ; the sails 
Fly, rent like webs of gossamer ; the masts 
Are snapped asunder ; downward from the decks, 
Downward are slung, into the fathomless gulf, 
Their cruel engines ; and their hosts, arrayed 
In trappings of the battle-field, are whelmed 
By whirlpools, or dashed dead upon the rocks. 
Then stand the nations still with awe, and pause, 
A moment, from the bloody work of war. 


A HYMN OF THE SEA. 


233 


These restless surges eat away the shores 
Of earth’s old continents ; the fertile plain 
Welters in shallows, headlands crumble down, 

And the tide drifts the sea-sand in the streets 
Of the drowned city. Thou, meanwhile, afar 
In the green chambers of the middle sea, 

Where broadest spread the waters and the line 
Sinks deepest, while no eye beholds thy work, 
Creator ! thou dost teach the coral worm 
To lay his mighty reefs. From age to age, 

He builds beneath the waters, till, at last, 

His bulwarks overtop the brine, and check 
The long wave rolling from the southern pole 
To break upon Japan. Thou bidd’st the tires, 

That smoulder under ocean, heave on high 
The new-made mountains, and uplift their peaks, 

A place of refuge for the storm-driven bird. 

The birds and wafting billows plant the rifts 
With herb and tree ; sweet fountains gush ; sweet airs 
Ripple the living lakes that, fringed with flowers, 
Are gathered in the hollows. Thou dost look 
On thy creation and pronounce it good. 

Its valleys, glorious with their summer green, 

Praise thee in silent beauty, and its woods, 

Swept by the murmuring winds of ocean, join 
The murmuring shores in a perpetual hymn. 


234 


LATER P0EM8. 


NOON. 

FROM AN UNFINISHED POEM. 

’Tis noon. At noon the Hebrew bowed the knee 
And worshipped, while the husbandmen withdrew 
From the scorched field, and the wayfaring man 
Grew faint, and turned aside by bubbling fount. 

Or rested in the shadow of the palm. 

I, too, amid the overflow of day, 

Behold the power which wields and cherishes 
The frame of Nature. From this brow of rock 
That overlooks the Hudson’s western marge, 

I gaze upon the long array of groves, 

The piles and gulfs of verdure drinking in 
The grateful heats. They love the fiery sun ; 

Their broadening leaves grow glossier, and their sprays 
Climb as he looks upon them. In the midst, 

The swelling river, into his green gulfs. 

Unshadowed save by passing sails above, 

Takes the redundant glory, and enjoys 
The summer in his chilly bed. Coy flowers 
That would not open in the early light. 

Push back their plaited sheaths. The rivulet s pool, 
That darkly quivered all the morning long 
In the cool shade, now glimmers in the sun ; 

And o’er its surface shoots, and shoots again, 

The glittering dragon-fly, and deep within 
Run the brown water-beetles to and fro. 

A silence, the brief sabbath of an hour, 

Reigns o’er the fields ; the laborer sits within 
His dwelling ; he has left his steers awhile, 


NOON. 


235 


U nyoked, to bite the herbage, and his dog 
Sleeps stretched beside the door-stone in the shade. 
Now the grey marmot, with uplifted paws, 

No more sits listening by his den, but steals 
Abroad, in safety, to the clover-field, 

And crops its juicy blossoms. All the while 
A ceaseless murmur from the populous town 
Swells o’er these solitudes : a mingled sound 
Of jarring wheels, and iron hoofs that clash 
Upon the stony ways, and hammer-clang, 

And creak of engines lifting ponderous bulks. 

And calls and cries, and tread of eager feet, 
Innumerable, hurrying to and fro. 

Noon, in that mighty mart of nations, brings 
No pause to toil and care. With early day 
Began the tumult, and shall only cease 
When midnight, hushing one by one the sounds 
Of bustle, gathers the tired brood to rest. 

Thus, in this feverish time, when love of gain 
And luxury possess the hearts of men, 

Thus is it with the noon of human life. 

We, in our fervid manhood, in our strength 
Of reason, we, with hurry, noise, and care, 

Plan, toil, and strive, and pause not to refresh 
Our spirits with the calm and beautiful 
Of God’s harmonious universe, that won 
Our youthful wonder; pause not to inquire 
Why we are here ; and what the reverence 
Man owes to man, and what the mystery 
That links us to the greater world, beside 
W hose borders we but hover for a space. 


LATEE POEMS. 


THE CROWDED STREET. 

Let me move slowly through tho street. 

Filled with an ever-shifting train, 

Amid the sound of steps that beat 

The murmuring walks like autumn rain. 

How fast the flitting figures come 1 
The mild, the fierce, the stony face ; 

Some bright with thoughtless smiles, and some 
Where secret tears have left their trace. 

They pass — to toil, to strife, to rest ; 

To halls in which the feast is spread ; 

To chambers where the funeral guest 
In silence sits beside the dead. 

And some to happy homes repair, 

Where children, pressing cheek to cheek, 

With mute caresses shall declare 
The tenderness they cannot speak. 

And some, who walk in calmness here, 

Shall shudder as they reach the door 

Where one who made their dwelling dear, 

Its flower, its light, is seen no more. 

Youth, with pale cheek and slender frame, 
And dreams of greatness in thine eye 1 

Go’st thou to build an early name, 

Or early in the task to die \ 


THE WHITE-FOOTED DEER. 


237 


Keen son of trade, with eager brow ! 

Who is now fluttering in thy snare? 

Thy golden fortunes, tower they now, 

Or melt the glittering spires in air ? 

Who of this crowd to-night shall tread 
The dance till daylight gleam again ? 
Who sorrow o’er the untimely dead ? 

Who writhe in throes of mortal pain? 

Some, famine-struck, shall think he w long 
The cold dark hours, how slow the light ; 

I And some, who flaunt amid the throng, 

Shall hide in dens of shame to-night. 

Each, where his tasks or pleasures call, 
They pass, and heed each other not. 
There is who heeds, who holds them all, 

In his large love and boundless thought. 

These struggling tides of life that seem 
In wayward, aimless course to tend, 

Are eddies of the mighty stream 
That rolls to its appointed end. 


THE WHITE- FOOTED DEER 

It was a hundred years ago, 

When, by the woodland ways, 

The traveller saw the wild deer drink, 
Or crop the birchen sprays. 


238 


LATER POEMS. 


Beneath a hill, whose rocky side 
O’erbrowed a grassy mead, 

And fenced a cottage from the wind 
A deer was wont to feed. 


She only came when on the cliffs 
The evening moonlight lay, 

And no man knew the secret haunts 
In which she walked by day. 

White were her feet, her forehead showed 
A spot of silvery white, 

That seemed to glimmer like a star 
In autumn’s hazy night. 

And here, when sang the whippoorwill, 
She cropped the sprouting leaves, 

And here her rustling steps wei*e heard 
On still October eves. 


But when the broad midsummer moon 
Rose o’er that grassy lawn, 

Beside the silver-footed deer 
There grazed a spotted fawn. 

The cottage dame forbade her son 
To aim the rifle here ; 

** It were a sin,” she said, “ to harm 
Or fright that friendly deer. 

“ This spot has been my pleasant home 
Ten peaceful years and more ; 

And ever, when the moonlight shines, 
She feeds before our door. 


THE WHITE-FOOTED DEED. 


239 


M The red men say that here she walked 
A thousand moons ago ; 

They never raise the war-whoop here, 
And never twang the bow. 

■* I love to watch her as she feeds, 

And think that all is well 
While such a gentle creature haunts 
The place in which we dwell” 

The youth obeyed, and sought for game 
In forests far away, 

Where, deep in silence and in moss, 

The ancient woodland lay. 


But once, in autumn’s golden time, 

He ranged the wild in vain, 

Nor roused the pheasant nor the deer, 
And wandered home again. 


The crescent moon and crimson eve 
Shone with a mingling light ; 

The deer, upon the grassy mead, 
Was feeding full in sight. 


He raised the rifle to his eye, 
And from the cliffs around 
A sudden echo, shrill and sharp, 
Gave back its deadly sound. 


Away, into the neighboring wood, 
The startled creature flew, 

And crimson drops at morning lay 
Amid the glimmering dew, 


240 


LATER POEMS. 


Next evening shone the waxing moon 
As sweetly as before ; 

The deer upon the grassy mead 
Was seen again no more. 

But ere that crescent moon was old, 

By night the red men came, 

And burnt the cottage to the ground. 

And slew the youth and dame. 

Now woods have overgrown the mead, 
And hid the cliffs from sight ; 

There shrieks the hovering hawk at noon. 
And prowls the fox at night. 


THE WANING MOON. 

I ve watched too late ; the morn is near ; 

One look at God’s broad silent sky 1 
Oh, hopes and wishes vainly dear, 

How in your very strength ye die 1 

Even while your glow is on the cheek, 

And scarce the high pursuit begun, 

The heart grows faint, the hand grows weak, 
The task of life is left undone. 

See where, upon the horizon’s brim, 

Lies the still cloud in gloomy bars ; 

The waning moon, all pale and dim, 

Goes up amid the eternal stars. 


THE WANING MOON. 


241 


Late, in a flood of tender light, 

She floated through the ethereal blue, 

A softer sun, that shone all night 
Upon the gathering beads of dew. 

And still thou wanest, pallid moon ! 

The encroaching shadow grows apace ; 

Heaven’s everlasting watchers soon 
Shall see thee blotted from thy place. 

Oh, Night’s dethroned and crownless queen i 
Well may thy sad, expiring ray 

Be shed on those whose eyes have seen 
Hope’s glorious visions fade away. 

Shine thou for eyes that once were bright, 
For sages in the mind’s eclipse. 

For those whose words were speiis of might, 
But falter now on stammering lips I 

In thy decaying beam there lies 

Full many a grave on hill and plain. 

Of those who closed their dying eyes 
In grief that they had lived in vain. 

Another night, and thou among 

The spheres of heaven shalt cease to shine 

All rayless in the glittering throng 

Whose lustre late was quenched in thine. 

Yet soon a new and tender light 
From out thy darkened orb shall beam, 

And broaden till it shines all night 
On glistening dew and glimmering stream. 


21 


242 


LATER POEMS. 


THE STREAM OF LIFE. 

Oh silvery streamlet of the fields, 

That flowest full and free 1 
For thee the rains of spring return, 

The summer dews for thee ; 

And when thy latest blossoms die 
In autumn’s chilly showers, 

The winter fountains gush for thee, 

Till May bi’ings back the flowers. 

Oh Stream of Life! the violet springs 
But once beside thy bed ; 

But one brief summer, on thy path, 

The dews of heaven are shed. 

Thy parent fountains shrink away, 

And close their crystal veins, 

And where thy glittering current flow sd 
The dust alone remains. 


THE UNKNOWN WAT. 

A burning sky is o’er me, 

The sands beneath me glow, 

As onward, onward, wearily, 

In the sultry morn I go. 


THE UNKNOWN WAY. 


243 


From the dusty path there opens, 
Eastward, an unknown way ; 
Above its windings, pleasantly, 
The woodland branches play. 


A silvery brook comes stealing 
From the shadow of its trees, 

Where slender herbs of the forest stoop 
Before the entering breeze. 


Along those pleasant windings 
I would my journey lay, 

Where the shade is cool and the dew of night 
Is not yet dried away. 


Path of the flowery woodland 1 
Oh whither dost thou lead, 

Wandering by grassy orchard grounds 
Or by the open mead ? 

Goest thou by nestling cottage ? 

Goest thou by stately hall, 

Where the broad elm droops, a leafy dome, 
And woodbines flaunt on the wall? 

By steeps where children gather 
Flowers of the yet fresh year ? 

By lonely walks where lovers stray 
Till the tender stars appear ? 

Or haply dost thou linger 
On barren plains and bare, 

Or clamber the bald mountain side 
Into the thinner air? 


LATER POEMS. 


Where they who journey upward 
Walk in a weary track, 

And oft upon the shady vale 
With longing eyes look back? 


I hear a solemn murmur, 

And, listening to the sound, 

I knew the voice of the mighty sea. 
Beating his pebbly bound. 

Dost thou, oh path of the woodland 1 
End where those waters roar, 

Like human life, on a trackless beach, 
With a boundless Sea before ? 


“OH MOTHER OF A MIGHTY RACE." 

Oh mother of a mighty race, 

Y et lovely in thy youthful grace ! 

The elder dames, thy haughty peers, 
Admire and hate thy blooming years. 

With words of shame 
And taunts of scorn they join thy name. 

For on thy cheeks the glow is spread 
That tints thy morning hills with red ; 

They step — the wild deer’s rustling feet, 
Within thy woods are not more fleet; 

Thy hopeful eye 

Is bright as thine own sunny sky. 


“OH MOTHER OF A MIGHTY RACE.” 

Aye, let them rail — those haughty ones, 
While safe thou dwellest with thy sons. 
They do not know how loved thou art, 
How many a fond and fearless heart 
Would rise to throw 
Its life between thee and the foe. 


They know not, in their hate and pride, 
What virtues with thy children bide; 

How true, how good, thy graceful maids 
Make bright, like flowers, the valley shades; 
What generous men 

Spring, like thine oaks, by hill and glen. 


What cordial welcomes greet the guest 
By thy lone rivers of the West; 

How faith is kept, and truth revered, 
And man is loved, and God is feared, 

In woodland homes, 

And where the ocean border foams. 

There’s freedom at thy gates and rest 
For Earth’s down-trodden and opprest, 
A shelter for the hunted head, 

For the starved laborer toil and bread. 

Power, at thy bounds, 

Stops and calls back his baffled hounds 


Oh, fair young mother 1 on thy brow 
Shall sit a nobler grace than now. 
Deep in the brightness of thy skies, 
The thronging years in glory rise, 
And, as they fleet, 

Drop strength and riches at thy feet. 


246 


LATER POEMS. 


Thine eye, with every coming hour, 

Shall brighten, and thy form shall tower ; 
And when thy sisters, elder born, 

Would brand thy name with words of scorn, 
Before thine eye, 

Upon their lips the taunt shall die. 


THE LAND OF DREAMS. 

A mighty realm is the Land of Dreams, 

With steeps that hang in the twilight sky, 

And weltering oceans and trailing streams," 

That gleam where the dusky valleys lie. 

But over its shadowy border flow 
Sweet rays from the world of endless morn, 

And the nearer mountains catch the glow, 

And flowers in the nearer fields are born. 

The souls of the happy dead repair, 

From their bowers of light, to that bordering land 
And walk in the fainter glory there, 

With the souls of the living hand in hand. 

One calm sweet smile, in that shadowy sphere, 

From eyes that open on earth no more — 

One warning word from a voice once dear — 

How they rise in the memory o’er and o’er ! 

Far off from those hills that shine with day 
And fields that bloom in the heavenly gales. 

The Land of Dreams goes stretching away 
To dimmer mountains and darker vales. 


THE BUKIAL OF LOVE. 


There lie the chambers of guilty delight, 

There -walk the spectres of guilty fear, 

And soft low voices, that float through the Light, 
Are whispering sin in the helpless ear. 

Dear maid, in thy girlhood’s opening flower, 
Scarce weaned from the love of childish play 1 

The tears on whose cheeks are but the shower 
That freshens the blooms of early May ! 

Thine eyes are closed, and over thy brow 
Pass thoughtful shadows and joyous gieams, 

And I know, by thy moving lips, that now 
Thy spirit strays in the Land of Dreams. 

Light-hearted maiden, oh, heed thy feet ! 

O keep where that beam of Paradise falls : 

And only wander where thou may’st meet 
The blessed ones from its shining walls. 

So shalt thou come from the Land of Dreams, 
With love and peace to this world of strife: 

And the light that over that border streams 
Shall lie or the path of thy daily life. 


THE BURIAL OF LOYE. 

Two dark-eyed maids, at shut of day, 
Sat where a river rolled away, 

With calm sad brows and raven hair, 
And one was paie and both were fair. 


248 


LATER POEMS. 


Bring flowers, they sang, bring flowers unblown, 
Bring forest blooms of name unknown ; 

Bring budding sprays from wood and wild, 

To strew the bier of Love, the child. 


Close softly, fondly, while ye weep, 

His eyes, that death may seem like sleep, 
And fold his hands in sign of rest, 

His waxen hands, across his breast. 


And make his grave where violets hide, 
Where star-flowers strew the rivulet’s side, 
And blue-birds in the misty spring 
Of cloudless skies and summer sing. 


Place near him, as ye lay him low, 
His idle shafts, his loosened bow, 

The silken fillet that around 

His waggish eyes in sport he wound. 


But we shall mourn him long, and miss 
His ready smile, his ready kiss, 

The patter of his little feet, 

Sweet frowns and stammered phrases sweet ; 


And graver looks, serene and high, 

A light of heaven in that young eye, 

All these shall haunt us till the heart 
Shall ache and ache — and tears will start. 


The bow, the band shall fall to dust. 
The shining arrows waste with rust, 
And all of Love that earth can claim, 
Be but a memory and a name. 


THE MAY-SUN SHEDS AN AMBER LIGHT. 249 


Not thus his nobler part shall dwell, 

A prisoner in this narrow cell ; 

But he whom now we hide from men. 
In the dark ground, shall live again. 

Shall break these clods, a form of light, 
With nobler mien and purer sight. 

And in the eternal glory stand, 

Highest and nearest God’s right hand. 


IHE MAY-SUN SHEDS AN AMBER LIGHT. 

The May-sun sheds an amber light 

On new-leaved woods and lawns between ; 

But she who, with a smile more bright, 

Welcomed and watched the springing green, 
Is in her grave, 

Low in her grave. 

The fair white blossoms of the wood 
In groups beside the pathway stand •, 

But one, the gentle and the good, 

Who cropped them with a fairer hand, 

Is in her grave, 

Low in her grave. 

Upon the woodland’s morning airs 
The small bird’s mingled notes are flung ; 

But she, whose voice, more sweet than theirs, 
Once bade me listen while they sung, 

Is in her grave, 

Low in her grave. 


250 


LATEE POEMS. 


That music of the early year 

Brings tears of anguish to my eyes ; 

My heart aches when the flowers appear ; 
For then I think of her who lies 

Within her giave, 
Low in her grave. 


THE VOICE OF AUTUMN 

There comes, from yonder height. 

A soft repining sound, 

Where forest leaves are bright, 

And fall, like flakes of light, 

To the ground. 

It is the autumn breeze, 

That, lightly floating on, 

Just skims the weedy leas, 

Just stirs the glowing trees. 

And is gone. 

He moans by sedgy brook. 

And visits, with a sigh, 

The last pale flowers that look. 
From out their suuny nook, 

At the sky. 

O’er shouting children flies 
That light October wind, 

And, kissing cheeks and eyes 
He leaves their merry cries 
Far behind. 


THE VOICE OF AUTUMN. 


261 


And -wanders on to make 
That soft uneasy sound 
By distant wood and lake, 

Where distant fountains break 

From the ground. 

No bower where maidens dwell 
Can win a moment’s stay ; 

Nor fair untrodden dell; 

He sweeps the upland swell, 

And away 1 

Mourn’st thou thy homeless state? 

Oh soft, repining windl 
That early seek’st and late 
The rest it is thy fate 

Not to find. 

Not on the mountain’s breast, 

Not on the ocean’s shore, 

In all the East and West: 

The wind that stops to rest 
Is no more. 

By valleys, woods, and springs, 

No wonder thou shouldst grieve 
For all the glorious things 
Thou touchest with thy wings 
And must leave. 


252 


LATER POEMS. 


THE CONQUERORS GRAVE. 

Within this lowly grave a Conqueror lies, 

And yet the monument proclaims it not, 

Nor round the sleeper’s name hath chisel wrougnt 
The emblems of a fame that never dies, 

Ivy and amaranth, in a graceful sheaf, 

Twined with the laurel’s fair, imperial leaf. 

A simple name alone. 

To the great world unknown, 

Is graven here, and wild flowers, rising round, 

Meek meadow-sweet and violets of the ground, 

Lean lovingly against the humble stone. 

Here, in the quiet earth, they laid apart 
No man of iron mould and bloody hands, 

Who sought to wreak upon the cowering lands 
The passions that consumed his restless heart ; 

But one of tender spirit and delicate frame 
Gentlest, in mien and mind, 

Of gentle womankind, 

Timidly shrinking from the breath of blame : 

One in whose eyes the smile of kindness made 
Its haunt, like flowers by sunny brooks in May, 
Yet, at the thought of other’s pain, a shade 
Of sweeter sadness chased the smile away. 

Nor deem that when the hand that moulders here 
Was raised in menace, realms were chilled with feaT 
And armies mustered at the sign, as when 
Clouds rise on clouds before the rainy East, — 

Gray captains leading bands of veteran men 
And fiery youths to be the vulture’s feast. 


THE CONQUEROR’S GRAVE. 


253 


Not thus were waged the mighty wars that gave 
The victory to her who fills this grave ; 

Alone her task was wrought, 

Alone the battle fought ; 

Through that long strife her constant hope was staid 
On God alone, nor looked for other aid. 

She met the hosts of Sorrow with a look 

That altered not beneath the frown they wore. 
And soon the lowering brood were tamed, and took. 

Meekly, her gentle rule, and frowned no more. 

Her soft hand put aside the assaults of wrath. 

And calmly broke in twain 
The fiery shafts of pain, 

And rent the nets of passion from her path. 

By that victorious hand despair was slain. 

With love she vanquished hate and overcame 
Evil with good, in her Great Master’s name. 

Iler glory is not of this shadowy state, 

Glory that with the fleeting season dies ; 

But when she entered at the sapphire gate 
What joy was radiant in celestial eyes! 

IIow heaven’s bright depths with sounding weicomet 
rung, 

And flowers of heaven by shining hands were flung 
And He who, long before, 

Pain, scorn, and sorrow bore, 

The Mighty Sufferer, with aspect sweet, 

Smiled on the timid stranger from his seat; 

He who returning, glorious, from the grave, 

Dragged Death, disarmed, in chains, a crouching 
slave. 

See, as I linger here, the sun grows low; 

Cool airs are murmuring that the night is near 
Oh gentle sleeper, from thy grave I go 
Consoled though sad, in hope and yet in fear. 

22 


254 


LATEB POEMS. 


Brief is the time, I know, 

The warfare scarce begun ; 

Yet all may win the triumphs thou hast wou. 

Still flows the fount whose waters strengthened thee, 
The victors’ names are yet too few to fill 
Heaven’s mighty roll ; the glorious armory, 

That ministered to thee, is open stilL 


THE PLANTING OF THE APPLE-TREE. 

Come, let us plant the apple-tree. 

Cleave the tough greensward with the spade , 
Wide let its hollow bed be made ; 

There gently lay the roots, and there 
Sift the dark mould with kindly care, 

And press it o’er them tenderly, 

As, round the sleeping infant’s feet 
W e softly fold the cradle-sheet ; 

So plant we the apple-tree. 

What plant we in this apple-tree ? 

Buds, which the breath of summer days 
Shall lengthen into leafy sprays ; 

Boughs where the thrush, with crimson breast, 
Shall haunt and sing and hide her nest-, 

We plant, upon the sunny lea, 

A shadow for the noontide hour, 

A shelter from the summer shower, 

When we plant the apple-tree. 

What plant we in this apple-tree ? 

Sweets for a hundred flowery springs 
To load the Hay-wind’s restless wings, 


THE PLANTING OF THE APPLE-TREE. 255 


When, from the orchard row, he pours 
Its fragrance through our open doors ; 

A world of blossoms for the bee, 
Flowers for the sick girl’s silent room, 
For the glad infant sprigs of bloom, 
We *plant with the apple-tree. 


What plant we in this apple-tree ? 
Fruits that shall swell in sunny June, 

And redden in the August noon, 

And drop, when gentle airs come by, 

That fan the blue September sky, 

While children come, with cries of glee, 
And seek them where the fragrant grass 
Betrays their bed to those who pass, 

At the foot of the apple-tree. 


And when, above this apple-tree, 

The winter stars are quivering bright, 

And winds go howling through the night, 
Girls, whose young eyes o’erflow with mirth , 
Shall peel its fruit by cottage hearth, 

And guests in prouder homes shall see, 
Heaped with the grape of Cintra’s vine 
And golden orange of the line, 

The fruit of the apple-tree. 


The fruitage of this apple-tree 
Winds, and our flag of stripe and star, 
Shall bear to coasts that lie afar, 

Where men shall wonder at the view 
And ask in what fair groves they grew ; 

And sojourners beyond the sea 
Shall think of childhood’s careless day 
And long, long hours of summer play, 
In the shade of the apple-tree. 


256 


LATER POEMS. 


Each year shall give this apple-tree 
A broader flush of roseate bloom, 

A deeper maze of verdurous gloom, 

And loosen, when the frost-clouds lower, 
The crisp brown leaves in thicker shower. 

The years shall come and pass, but we 
Shall hear no longer, where we lie, 

The summer’s songs, the autumn’s sigh, 

In the boughs of the apple-tree. 


And time shall waste this apple-tree. 
Oh, when its aged branches throw 
Thin shadows on the ground below, 
Shall fraud and force and iron will 
Oppress the weak and helpless still ? 

What shall the tasks of mercy be, 
Amid the toils, the strifes, the tears 
Of those who live when length of years 
Is wasting this apple-tree ? 


“ Who planted this old apple-tree ? ” 

The children of that distant day 
Thus to some aged man shall say ; 

And, gazing on its mossy stem, 

The gray-haired man shall answer them : 

“ A poet of the land was he, 

Born in the rude but good old times ; 

’Tis said he made some quaint old rhymeu 
On planting the apple-tree.” 


TTTE SNOW-SHOWEK. 


257 


THE SNOW -SHOWER. 

Stand here by ray side and turn, I pray, 

On the lake below thy gentle eyes ; 

The clouds hang over it, heavy and gray, 

And dark and silent the water lies ; 

And out of that frozen mist the snow 
In wavering flakes begins to flow ; 

Flake after flake 
They sink in the dark and silent lake. 

See how in a living swarm they come 

From the chambers beyond that misty veil 
Some hover awhile in air, and some 

Rush prone from the sky like summer haiL 
All, dropping swiftly or settling slow, 

Meet, and are still in the depths below ; 

Flake after flake 
Dissolved in the dark and silent lake. 

Here delicate snow-stars, out of the cloud, 

Come floating downward in airy play, 

Like spangles dropped from the glistening crowd 
That whiten by night the milky way; 

There broader and burlier masses fall ; 

The sullen water buries them all — 

Flake after flake — 

All drowned in the dark and silent lake. 

And some, as on tender wings they glide 
From their chilly birth-cloud, dim and gray, 
Are joined in their fall, and, side by side, 

Come clinging along their unsteady way ; 


258 


LATEE POEMS. 


As friend with friend, or husband with wife 
Makes hand in hand the passage of life ; 

Each mated flake 
Soon sinks in the dark and silent lake. 

Lo ! while w r e are gazing, in swifter haste 
Stream down the snows, till the air is white, 

As, myriads by myriads madly chased, 

They fling themselves from their shadow r y height 
The fair, frail creatures of middle sky, 

What speed they make, with their grave so nigh ; 
Flake after flake, 

To lie in the dark and silent lake ! 

I see in thy gentle eyes a tear ; 

They turn to me in sorrowful thought ; 

Thou thinkest of friends, the good and dear, 

Who were for a time, and now are not ; 

Like these fair children of cloud and frost, 

That glisten a moment and then are lost, 

Flake after flake — 

All lost in the dark and silent lake. 

Yet look again, for the clouds divide ; 

A gleam of blue on the water lies ; 

And far away, on the mountain-side, 

A sunbeam falls from the opening skies. 

But the hurrying host that flew between 
The cloud and the w^ater, no more is seen ; 

Flake after flake, 

At rest in the dark and silent lake. 


A. RAIN-DKEAM. 


259 


A RAIN -DREAM. 

These strifes, these tumults of the uoisy world, 
Where Fraud, the coward, tracks his prey by stealth, 
And Strength, the ruffian, glories in his guilt, 

Oppress the heart with sadness. Oh, my friend, 

In what serener mood we look upon 
The gloomiest aspects of the elements 
Among the woods and fields ! Let us awhile, 

As the slow wind is rolling up the storm, 

In fancy leave this maze of dusty streets, 

Forever shaken by the importunate jar 
Of commerce, and upon the darkening air 
Look from the shelter of our rural home. 

Who is not awed that listens to the Rain, 

Sending his voice before him ? Mighty Rain ! 

The upland steeps are shrouded by thy mists ; 

Thy shadow fills the hollow vale ; the pools 
No longer glimmer, and the silvery streams 
Darken to veins of lead at thy approach. 

Oh, mighty Rain ! already thou art here; 

And every roof is beaten by thy streams, 

And, as thou passest, every glassy spring 
Grows rough, and every leaf in all the woods 
Is struck, and quivers. All the hill-tops slake 
Their thirst from thee ; a thousand languishing fields, 
A thousand fainting gardens, are refreshed; 

A thousand idle rivulets start to speed, 

And with the graver murmur of the storm 
Blend their light voices as they hurry on. 

Thou fill’st the circle of the atmosphere 
Alone ; there is no living thing abroad, 

No bird to wing the air nor beast to walk 


200 


LATEIt POEMS. 


The field ; the squirrd. in the forest seeks 
His hollow tree ; the marmot of the field 
Has scampered to his den ; the butterfly 
Hides under her broad leaf ; the insect crowds 
That made the sunshine populous, lie close 
In their mysterious shelters, whence the sun 
Will summon them again. The mighty Rain 
Holds the vast empire of the sky alone. 

I shut my eyes, and see, as in a dream, 

The friendly clouds drop down spring violets 
And summer columbines, and all the flowers 
That tuft the woodland floor, or overarch 
The streamlet : — spiky grass for genial June, 

Brown harvests for the waiting husbandman, 

And for the woods a deluge oi fresh leaves. 

I see these myriad drops that slake the dust, 
Gathered in glorious streams, or rolling blue 
In billows on the lake or on the deep, 

And bearing navies. I behold them change 
To threads of crystal as they sink in earth 
And leave its stains behind, to rise again 
In pleasant nooks of verdure, where the child, 
Thirsty with play, in both his little hands 
Shall take the cool, clear water, raising it 
To wet his pretty lips. To-morrow noon 
How proudly will the water-lily ride 
The brimming pool, o’erlooking, like a queen, 

Her circle of broad leaves. In lonely wastes. 

When next the sunshine makes them beautiful, 

Gay troops of butterflies shall light to drink 
At the replenished hollows of the rock. 

Now slowly falls the dull blank night, and still, 
All through the starless hours, the mighty Rain 
Smites with perpetual sound the forest-leaves, 

And heats the matted grass, and still the earth 
Drinks the unstinted bounty of the clouds — 

Drinks for her cottage wells, her woodland brooks — 
Drinks for the springing trout, the toiling bee, 


BOBEET OF LINCOLN. 


261 


And brooding bird — drinks for her tender flowers, 
Tall oaks, and all the herbage of her hills. 

A melancholy sound is in the air, 

A deep sigh in the distance, a shrill wail 
Around my dwelling. ’Tis the wind of night ; 

A lonely wanderer between earth and cloud, 

In the black shadow and the chilly mist, 

Along the streaming mountain-side, and through 
The dripping woods, and o’er the plashy fields, 
Roaming and sorrowing still, like one who makes 
The journey of life alone, and nowhere meets 
A welcome or a friend, and still goes on 
In darkness. Yet awhile, a little while, 

And he shall toss the glittering leaves in play, 
And dally with the flowers, and gayly lift 
The slender herbs, pressed low by weight of rain, 
And drive, in joyous triumph, through the sky, 
White clouds, the laggard remnants of the storm. 


ROBERT OF LINCOLN'. 

Merrily swinging on brier and weed, 

Near to the nest of his little dame, 

Over the mountain-side or mead, 

Robert of Lincoln is telling his name.; 
Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link, 

Spink, spank, spink ; 

Snug and safe is that nest of ours, 

Hidden among the summer flowers. 

Chee, chee, chee. 

Robert of Lincoln is gayly drest, 

Wearing a bright black wedding coat; 
White are his shoulders and white his crest, 
Hear him call in his merry note : 


262 


LATEE POEMS. 


Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link, 

Spink, spank, spink; 

Look, what a nice new coat is mine, 

Sure there was never a bird so fine. 

Chee, chee, chee. 

Robert of Lincoln’s Quaker wife, 

Pretty and quiet, with plain brown wings, 
Passing at home a patient life, 

Broods in the grass while her husband sings 
Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link, 

Spink, spank, spink ; 

Brood, kind creature ; you need not fear 
Thieves and robbers while I am here. 

Chee, chee, chee. 

Modest and shy as a nun is she ; 

One weak chirp is her only note. 

Braggart and prinoe of braggarts is he, 
Pouring boasts from his little throat : 
Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link, 

Spink, spank, spink ; 

Never was I afraid of man; 

Catch me, cowardly knaves, if you can. 

Chee, chee, chee. 

Six white eggs on a bed of hay, 

Flecked with purple, a pretty sight ! 

There as the mother sits all day, 

Robert is singing with all his might : 
Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link, 

Spink, spank, spink ; 

Nice good wife, that never goes out, 

Keeping house while I frolic about. 

Chee, chee, chee. 

Soon as the little ones chip the shell 
Six wide mouths are open for food • 


' THE TWENTY-SEVENTH OF MARCH. 

Robert of Lincoln bestirs him well, 
Gathering seeds for the hungry brood. 
Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link, 

Spink, spank, spink ; 

This new life is likely to be 
Hard for a gay young fellow like me. 

Chee, chee, chee. 

Robert of Lincoln at length is made 
Sober with work, and silent with care ; 
Off is his holiday garment laid, 

Half forgotten that merry air, 
Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link, 

Spink, spank, spink ; 

Nobody knows but my mate and I 
Where our nest and our nestlings lie, 
Chee, chee, chee. 

Summer wanes ; the children are grown ; 

Fun and frolic no more he knows ; 
Robert of Lincoln’s a humdrum crone ; 
Off he flies, and we sing as he goes : 
Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link, 

Spink, spank, spink ; 

When you can pipe that merry old strain, 
Robert of Lincoln, come back again. 

Chee, chee, chee. 


THE TWENTY-SEVENTH OF MARCH. 

On gentle one, thy birthday sun should rise 
Amid a chorus of the merriest birds 
That ever sang the stars out of the sky 
In a June morning. Rivulets should send 


263 


261 


LATER POEMS. 


A voice of gladness from their winding paths, 

Deep in o’erarching grass, where playful winds, 
Stirring the loaded stems, should shower the dew 
Upon the glassy water. Newly-blown 
Roses, by thousands, to the garden walks 
Should tempt the loitering moth and diligent bee. 
The longest, brightest day in all the year 
Should be the day on which thy cheerful eyes 
First opened on the earth, to make thy haunts 
Fairer and gladder for thy kindly looks. 

Thus might a poet say ; but I must bring 
A birthday offering of an humbler strain, 

And yet it may not please thee less. I hold 
That ’twas the fitting season for thy birth 
When March, just ready to depart, begins 
To soften into April. Then we have 
The delicatest and most welcome flowers, 

And yet they take least heed of bitter wind 
And lowering sky. The periwinkle then 
In an hour’s sunshine, lifts her azure blooms 
Beside the cottage door ; within the woods 
Tufts of ground laurel, creeping underneath 
The leaves of the last summer, send their sweets 
Up to the chilly air, and, by the oak, 

The squirrel-cups, a graceful company, 

Hide in their bells, a soft aerial blue — 

Sweet flowers, that nestle in the humblest nooks, 
And yet within whose smallest bud is wrapt 
A world of promise ! Still the north wind breathes 
His frost, and still the sky sheds snow and sleet ; 
Yet ever, when the sun looks forth again, 

The flowers smile up to him from their low seats. 

Well hast thou borne the bleak March day of life. 
Its storms and its keen winds to thee have been 
Most kindly tempered, and through all its gloom 
There has been warmth and sunshine in thy heart ; 
The griefs of life to thee have been like snows, 

That light upon the fields in early spring, 


AN INVITATION TO THE COUNTRY. 265 

Making them greener. In its milder hours, 

The smile of this pale season, thou hast seen, 

The glorious bloom of June, and in the note 
Of early bird, that comes a messenger 
From climes of endless verdure, thou hast heard 
The choir that fills the summer woods with song. 

Now be the hours that yet remain to thee 
Stormy or sunny, sympathy and love, 

That inextinguishably dwell within 
Thy heart, shall give a beauty and a light 
To the most desolate moments, like the glow 
Of a bright fireside in the wildest day ; 

And kindly words and offices of good 
Shall wait upon thy steps, as thou goest on, 

Where God shall lead thee, till thou reach the gates 
Of a more genial season, and thy path 
Be lost to human eye among the bowers 
And living fountains of a brighter land. 

March , 1855. 


AN INVITATION TO THE COUNTRY. 

Already, close by our summer dwelling, 

The Easter sparrow repeats her song ; 

A. merry warbler, she chides the blossoms — 

The idle blossoms that sleep so long. 

The blue-bird chants, from the elm’s long branches, 
A hymn to welcome the budding year. 

The south wind wanders from field to forest, 

And softly whispers, “ The Spring is here.” 

23 


266 


LATER P0EM3. 


Come, daughter mine, from the gloomy city, 
Before those lays from the elm have ceased ; 

The violet breathes, by our door, as sweetly 
As in the air of her native East. 

Though many a flower in the wood is waking, 

The daffodil is our doorside queen ; 

She pushes upward the sward already, 

To spot with sunshine the early green. 

No lays so joyous as these are warbled 
From wiry prison in maiden’s bower ; 

No pampered bloom of the green-house chamber 
Has half the charm of the lawn’s first flower. 

Yet these sweet sounds of the early season, 

And these fair sights of its sunny days 

Are only sweet when we fondly listen, 

And only fair when we fondly gaze. 

There is no glory in star or blossom 
Till looked upon by a loving eye ; 

There is no fragrance in April breezes 
Till breathed with joy as they wander by. 

Come, Julia dear, for the sprouting willows, 

The opening flowers, and the gleaming brooks, 

And hollows, green in the sun, are waiting 
Their dower of beauty from thy glad looks. 


A SONG FOR NEW-YEAR’S EYE. 


A SONG FOR NEW-YEAR’S EYE. 

Stay yet, my friends, a moment stay — 
Stay till the good old year, 

So tong companion of our way, 

Shakes hands, and leaves us here. 

Oh stay, oh stay, 

One little hour, and then away. 


The year, whose hopes were high and strong, 
Has now no hopes to wake ; 

Yet one hour more of jest and song 
For his familiar sake. 

Oh stay, oh stay, 

One mirthful hour, and then away. 


The kindly year, bis liberal hands 
Have lavished all his store. 

And shall we turn from where he stands, 
Because he gives no more ? 

Oh stay, oh stay, 

One grateful hour, and then away. 

Days brightly came and calmly went, 
While yet he was our guest ; 

How cheerfully the week was spent ! 

How sweet the seventh day’s rest ! 

Oh stay, oh stay, 

One golden hour, and theu away. 

Dear friends were with us, some who sleep 
Beneath the coffin-lid : 


268 


LATHE POEMS. 


What pleasant memories we keep 
Of all they said and did 1 
Oh stay, oh stay, 

One tender hour, and then away. 

Even while we sing, he smiles his last, 
And leaves our sphere behind. 

The good old year is with the past ; 
Oh be the new as kind ! 

Oh stay, oh stay, 

One parting strain, and then away. 


THE WIND AND STREAM. 

A brook came stealing from the ground , 
You scarcely saw its silvery gleam 
Among the herbs that hung around 
The borders of that winding stream, 

The pretty stream, the placid stream, 

The softly-gliding, bashful stream. 

A breeze came wandering from the sky, 
Light as the whispers of a dream ; 

He put the o’erhanging grasses by, 

And softly stooped to kiss the stream, 
The pretty stream, the flattered stream, 
The shy, yet unreluctant stream. 

The water, as the wind passed o’er, 

Shot upward many a glancing beam, 
Dimpled and quivered more and more, 

And tripped along, a livelier stream. 

The flattered stream, the simpering stream, 
The fond, delighted, silly stream. 


THE LOST BIRD. 


269 


Away the airy wanderer flew 

To where the fields with blossoms teem, 
To sparkling springs and rivers blue, 

And left alone that little stream, 

The flattered stream, the cheated stream, 
The sad, forsaken, lonely stream. 

That careless wind came never back ; 

He wanders yet the fields I deem, 

But, on its melancholy track, 

Complaining went that little stream, 

The cheated stream, the hopeless stream, 
The ever-murmuring, mourning stream. 


THE LOST BIRD. 

FROM THE SPANISH OF CAROLINA CORONADO DE PERRY. 

My bird has flown away, 

Far out of sight has flown, I know not where. 
Look in your lawn, I pray, 

Ye maidens, kind and fair, 

And see if my beloved bird be there. 

His eyes are full of light ; 

The eagle of the rock has such an eye ; 

And plumes, exceeding bright, 

Round his smooth temples lie, 

And sweet his voice and tender as a sigh. 

Look where the grass is gay 
With summer blossoms, haply there he cowers ; 
And search, from spray to spray, 

The leafy laurel -bowers, 

For well he loves the laurels and the flowers. 


270 


LATEB POEMS. 


Find him, but do not dwell, 

With eyes too fond, on the fair form you see. 
Nor love his song too well ; 

Send him, at once, to me, 

Or leave him to the air and liberty. 

For only from my hand 
He takes the seed into his golden beak, 

And all unwiped shall stand 
The tears that wet my cheek, 

Till I have found the wanderer I seek. 

My sight is darkened o’er, 

Whene’er I miss his eyes, which are my day, 
And when I hear no more 
The music of his lay, 

My heart in utter sadness faints away. 


THE NIGHT JOURNEY OF A RIYER. 

Oh River, gentle River ! gliding on 
In silence underneath this starless sky ! 

Thine is a ministry that never rests 
Even while the living slumber. For a time 
The meddler, man, hath left the elements 
In peace ; the ploughman breaks the clods no more 
The miner labors not, with steel and fire, 

To rend the rock, and he that hews the stone, 

And he that fells the forest, he that guides 
The loaded wain, and the poor animal 
That drags it, have forgotten, for a time, 

Their toils, and share the quiet of the earth. 

Thou pausest not in thine allotted task, 


THE NIGHT JOUKNEY (/F A EIYER. 271 

Oh darkling River ! Through the night I hear 
Thy wavelets rippling on the pebbly beach ; 

I hear thy current stil* the rustling sedge, 

That skirts thy bed ; thou intermittest not 
Thine everlasting journey, drawing on 
A silvery train from many a woodland spring, 

And mountain-brook. The dweller by thy side, 

Who moored his little boat upon thy beach, 

Though all the waters that upbore it then 
Have slid away o’er night, shall find, at morn, 

Thy channel filled with waters freshly drawn 
From distant cliffs and hollows where the rill 
Comes up amid the water-flags. All night 
Thou givest moisture to the thirsty roots 
Of the lithe willow and o’erhanging plane, 

And cherishest the herbage of thy bank, 

Spotted with little flowers, and sendest up 
Perpetually, the vapors from thy face, 

To steep the hills with dew, or darken heaven 
With drifting clouds, that trail the shadowy shower. 

Oh River! darkling River! what a voice 
Is that thou utterest while all else is still — 

The ancient voice that, centuries ago, 

Sounded between thy hills, while Rome was yet 
A weedy solitude by Tiber’s stream. 

How many, at this hour, along thy course, 

Slumber to thine eternal murmurings, 

That mingle with the utterance of their dreams ! 

At dead of night the child awakes and hears 
Thy soft, familiar dashings, and is soothed, 

And sleeps again. An airy multitude 
Of little echoes, all unheard by day, 

Faintly repeat, till morning, after thee, 

The story of thine endless goings forth. 

Yet there are those who lie beside thy bed 
For whom thou once didst rear the bowers that screen 
Thy margin, and didst water the green fields ; 

And now there is no night so still that they 


E72 


LATEE POEMS. 


Can bear tby lapse ; their slumbers, were thy voice 
Louder than ocean’s, it could never break. 

For them the early violet no more 
Opens upon thy bank, nor, for their eyes, 

Glitter the crimson pictures of the clouds, 

Upon thy bosom, when the sun goes down. 

Their memories are abroad, the memories 
Of those who last were gathered to the earth, 
Lingering within the homes in which they sat, 
Hovering above the paths in which they walked, 
Haunting them like a presence. Even now 
They visit many a dreamer in the forms 
They walked in, ere at last they wore the shroud. 
And eyes there are which will not close to dream. 
For weeping and for thinking of the grave, 

The new-made grave, and the pale one within. 
These memories and these sorrows all shall fade, 
And pass away, and fresher memories 
And newer sorrows come and dwell awhile 
Beside thy borders, and, in turn, depart. 

On glide thy waters, till at last they flow 
Beneath the windows of the populous town, 

And all night long give back the gleam of lamps, 
And glimmer with the trains of light that stream 
From halls where dancers whirl. A dimmer ray 
Touches thy surface from the silent room 
In which they tend the sick, or gather round 
The dying ; and a slender, steady beam 
Comes from the little chamber, in the roof 
Where, with a feverous crimson on her cheek, 

The solitary damsel, dying, too, 

Plies the quick needle till the stars grow pale. 
There, close beside the haunts of revel, stand 
The blank, unlighted windows, where the poor, 

In hunger and in darkness, wake till morn. 

There, drowsily, on the half-conscious ear 
Of the dull watchman, pacing on the wharf. 

Falls the soft ripp ] e of the waves that strike 


TELE LIFE THAT IS. 


273 


On the moored bark ; but guiltier listeners 
Are nigh, the prowlers of the night, who steal 
From shadowy nook to shadowy nook, and start 
If other sounds than thine are in the air. 

Oh, glide away from those abodes, that bring 
Pollution to thy channel and make foul 
Thy once clear current ; summon thy quick waves 
And dimpling eddies ; linger not, but haste, 

With all thy waters, haste thee to the deep, 

There to be tossed by shifting winds and rocked 
By that mysterious force which lives within 
The sea’s immensity, and wields the weight 
Of its abysses, swaying to and fro 
The billowy mass, until the stain, at length, 

Shall wholly pass away, and thou regain 
The crystal brightness of thy mountain-springs. 


THE LIFE THAT IS. 

Thou, who so long hast pressed the couch of pain, 
Oh welcome, welcome back to life’s free breath— 

To life’s free breath and day’s sweet light again, 
From the chill shadows of the gate of death. 

For thou hadst reached the twilight bound between 
The world of spirits and this grosser sphere ; 

Dimly by thee the things of earth were seen, 

And faintly fell earth’s voices on thine ear. 

And now, how gladly we behold, at last, 

The wonted smile returning to thy brow ; 

The very wind’s low whisper, breathing past, 

In the light leaves, is music to thee now. 


274 


LATER POEMS. 


Thou wert not weary of thy lot ; the earth 
Was ever good and pleasant in thy sight ; 

Still clung thy loves about the household hearth. 
And sweet was every day’s returning light. 


Then welcome back to al' thou wouldst not leave, 

To this grand march of seasons, days, and hours 
The glory of the morn, the glow of eve, 

The beauty of the streams, and stars, and flowers 


To eyes on which thine own delight to rest ; 

To voices which it is thy joy to hear ; 

To the kind toils that ever pleased thee best, 
The willing tasks of love, that made life dear. 


Welcome to grasp of friendly hands ; to prayers 
Offered where crowds in reverent worship come, 
Or softly breathed amid the tender cares 
And loving inmates of thy quiet home. 


Thou bring’st no tidings of the better land, 

Even from its verge ; the mysteries opened there 
Ire what the faithful heart may understand 
In its still depths, yet words may not declare. 


And well I deem, that, from the brighter side 
Of life’s dim border, some o’erflowing rays 
Streamed from the inner glory, shall abide 
Upon thy spirit through the coming days. 

Twice wert thou given me ; once in thy fair prime, 
Fresh from the fields of youth, when first we met, 
A.nd all the blossoms of that hopeful time 
Clustered and glowed where’er thy steps were sef 


THESE PEAIEIES GLOW WITH FLOWERS. 275 


And now, in thy ripe autumn, once again 
Given back to fervent prayers and yearnings strong, 
From the drear realm of sickness and of pain, 

When we had watched, and feared, and trembled 
long. 

Now may we keep thee from the balmy air 
And radiant walks of heaven a little space, 

Where He, who went before thee to prepare 
For His meek followers, shall assign thy place. 

O^stellamare, May, 1S58. 


SONG. 

“THESE PRAIRIES GLOW WITH FLOWERS.*' 

These prairies glow with flowers, 
These groves are tall and fair, 

The sweet lay of the mocking-bird 
Rings in the morning air ; 

And yet I pine to see 
My native hill once more. 

And hear the sparrow’s friendly chirp 
Beside its cottage door. 

And he, for whom I left 
My native hill and brook, 

Alas, I sometimes think I trace 
A coldness in his look. 

If I have lost his love, 

I know my heart will break ; 

And haply, they I left for him 
Will sorrow for my sake. 


27 fi 


LATEE POEMS. 


A SICK-BED. 

Long hast thou watched my bed. 
And smoothed the pillow oft 

For this poor, aching head, 

With touches kind and soft. 

Oh ! smooth it yet again, 

As softly as before ; 

Once — only once — and then 
I need thy hand no more. 

Yet here I may not stay, 

Where I so long have lain, 

Through many a restless day 
And many a night of pain. 

But bear me gently forth 
Beneath the open sky, 

Where, on the pleasant earth, 
Till night the sunbeams lie. 

There, through the coming days, 
I shall not look to thee 

My weary side to raise, 

And shift it tenderly. 

There sweetly shall I sleep ; 

Nor wilt thou need to bring 

And put to my hot lip 

Cool water from the spring ; 

Nor wet the kerchief laid 
Upon my burning brow ; 


A SICK-BED. 


277 


Nor from my eyelids shade 

The light that wounds them now ; 

Nor watch that none shall tread, 

With noisy footstep, nigh ; 

Nor listen by my bed, 

To hear my faintest sigh, 

And feign a look of cheer, 

And words of comfort speak, 

Yet turn to hide the tear 
That gathers on thy cheek. 

Beside me, where I rest, 

Thy loving hands will set 

The flowers that please me best ; 
Moss-rose and violet. 

Then to the sleep I crave 
Resign me, till I see 

The face of Him who gave 
His life for thee and me. 

Yet, with the setting sun, 

Come, now and then, at eve, 

And think of me as one 
Tor whom thou shouldst not grieve ; 

Who, when the kind release 
From sin and suffering came, 

Passed to the appointed peace 
In murmuring thy name. 

Leave at my side a space, 

Where thou shalt come, at last, 

To find a resting-place, 

When many years are past. 


24 


278 


LATER POEMS. 


THE SONG OF THE SOWER. 


i. 

The maples redden in the sun ; 

In autumn gold the beeches stand ; 
Rest, faithful plough, thy work is done 
Upon the teeming land. 

Bordered with trees whose gay leaves fly 
On every breath that sweeps the sky 
The fresh dark acres furrowed lie, 

And ask the sower’s hand. 

Loose the tired steer and let him' go 
To pasture where the gentians blow, 

And we, who till the grateful ground, 
Fling we the golden shower around. 


ii. 

Fling wide the generous grain ; we fling 
O’er the dark mould the green of spring. 
For thick the emerald blades shall grow, 
When first the March winds melt the snow, 
And to the sleeping flowers, below, 

The early bluebirds sing. 

Fling wide the grain ; we give the fields 
The ears that nod in summer’s gale, 

The shining stems that summer gilds, 

The harvest that o’erflows the vale, 

And swells, an amber sea, between 
The full-leaved woods, its shores of green. 
Hark ! from the murmuring clods I hear 
Glad voices of the coming year ; 


THE SONG OF THE SOWER. 


279 


The song of him who binds the grain, 

The shout of those that load the wain, 
And from the distant grange there comes 
The clatter of the thresher’s flail, 

And steadily the millstone hums 
Down in the willowy vale. 


hi. 

Fling wide the golden shower ; we trust 
The strength of armies to the dust. . 

This peaceful lea may haply yield 
Its harvest for the tented field. 

Ha ! feel ye not your fingers thrill, 

As o’er them, in the yellow grains, 

Glide the warm drops of blood that fill, 

For mortal strife, the warrior’s veins ; 
Such as, on Solferino’s day, 

Slaked the brown sand and flowed away; — 
Flowed till the herds, on Mincio’s brink, 
Snuffed the red stream and feared to drink 
Blood that in deeper pools shall lie, 

On the sad earth, as time grows gray, 
When men by deadlier arts shall die, 

And deeper darkness blot the sky 
Above the thundering fray ; 

And realms, that hear the battle-cry, 

Shall sicken with dismay ; 

And chieftains to the war shall lead 
Whole nations, with the tempest’s speed, 

To perish in a day ; — 

Till man, by love and mercy taught, 

Shall rue the wreck his fury wrought, 

And lay the sword away ! 

Oh strew, with pausing, shuddering hand, 
The seed upon the helpless land, 

As if, at every step, ye cast 
The pelting hail and riving blast. 


•280 


LATER POEMS. 


IT. 

Nay, strew, with free and joyous sweep, 

The seed upon the expecting soil ; 

For hence the plenteous year shall heap 
The garners of the men who toil. 

Strew the bright seed for those who tear 
The matted sward with spade and share, 

And those whose sounding axes gleam 
Beside the lonely forest-stream, 

Till its broad banks lie bare ; 

And him who breaks the quarry-ledge, 

With hammer-blows, plied quick and strong, 
And him who, with the steady sledge, 

Smites the shrill anvil all day long. 

Sprinkle the furrow’s even trace 
For those whose toiling hands uprear 
The roof-trees of our swarming race, 

By grove and plain, by stream and mere ; 
Who forth, from crowded city, lead 
The lengthening street, and overlay 
Green orchard-plot and grassy mead 
With pavement of the murmuring way 
Cast, with full hands, the harvest cast, 

For the brave men that climb the mast, 

When to the billow and the blast 

It swings and stoops, with fearful strain, 
And bind the fluttering mainsail fast, 

Till the tossed bark shall sit, again. 

Safe as a sea-bird on the main. 

v. 

Fling wide the grain for those who throw 
The clanking shuttle to and fro, 

In the long row of humming rooms, 

And into ponderous masses wind 


THE SONG OP THE SOWER. 


281 


The web that, from a thousand looms, 
Comes forth to clothe mankind. 

Strew, with free sweep, the grain for them, 
By whom the busy thread, 

Along the garment’s even hem 
And winding seam is led ; 

A pallid sisterhood, that keep 
The lonely lamp alight, 

In strife with weariness and sleep, 

Beyond the middle night. 

Large part be theirs in what the year 
Shall ripen for the reaper here. 


VI. 

Still, strew, with joyous hand, the wheat 
On the soft mould beneath our feet, 

For even now I seem 
To hear a sound that lightly rings 
From murmuring harp and viol’s strings, 
As in a summer dream. 

The welcome of the wedding-guest, 

The bridegroom’s look of bashful pride, 
The faint smile of the pallid bride, 

And bridemaid’s blush at matron’s jest, 
And dance and song and generous dower 
Are in the shining grains we shower. 


VII. 

Scatter the wheat for shipwrecked men, 
Who, hunger-worn, rejoice again 
In the sweet safety of the shore, 

And wanderers, lost in woodlands drear, 
Whose pulses bound with joy to hear 
The herd’s light bell once more. 
Freely the golden spray be shed 


282 


LATER POEMS. 


For him whose heart, when night comes down 
On the close alleys of the town, 

Is faint for lack of bread. 

In chill roof-chamber3, bleak and bare, 

Or the damp cellar’s stifling air, 

She who now sees, in mute despair, 

Her children pine for food, 

Shall feel the dews of gladness start 
To lids long tearless, and shall part 
The sweet loaf with a grateful heart, 

Among her thin pale brood. 

Dear, kindly Earth, whose breast we till ! 

Oh, for thy famished children, fill, 

Where’er the sower walks, 

Fill the rich ears that shade the mould 
With grain for grain, a hundredfold, 

To bend the sturdy stalks. 

Till. 

Strew silently the fruitful seed, 

As softly o’er the tilth ye tread, 

For hands that delicately knead 
The consecrated bread. 

The mystic loaf that crowns the board, 

When, round the table of their Lord, 

Within a thousand temples set, 

In memory of the bitter death 
Of Him who taught at Nazareth, 

His followers are met, 

And thoughtful eyes with tears are wet, 

As of the Holy One they think, 

The glory of whose rising, yet 

Makes bright the grave’s mysterious brink. 


IX. 

Brethren, the sower’s task is done. 
The seed is in its winter bed. 


THE SONG OF THE SOWER. 


283 


Now let the dark-brown mould be spread, 
To hide it from the sun, 

And leave it to the kindly care 
Of the still earth and brooding air. 

As when the mother, from her breast, 
Lays the hushed babe apart to rest, 

And shades its eyes, and waits to see 
How sweet its waking smile will be. 

The tempest now may smite, the sleet 
All night on the drowned furrow beat, 

And winds that, from the cloudy hold, 

Of winter breathe the bitter cold, 

Stiffen to stone the mellow mould, 

Yet safe shall lie the wheat ; 

Till, out of heaven’s unmeasured blue, 
Shall walk again the genial year, 

To wake with warmth and nurse with dev; 
The germs we lay to slumber here. 


x. 

Oh blessed harvest yet to be ! 

Abide thou with the Love that keeps, 

In its warm bosom, tenderly, 

The Life which wakes and that which sleeps. 
The Love that leads the willing spheres 
Along the unending track of years 
And watches o’er the sparrow’s nest, 

Shall brood above thy winter rest, 

And raise thee from the dust, to hold 
Light whisperings with the wind of May, 
And fill thy spikes with living gold, 

From summer’s yellow ray ; 

Then, as thy gamers give thee forth, 

On what glad errands shalt thou go, 
Wherever, o’er the waiting earth, 

Roads wind and rivers flow ! 


LATER POEMS. 


The ancient East shall welcome thee 
To mighty marts beyond the sea, 

And they who dwell where palm-groves sound 
To summer winds the whole year round, 

Shall watch, in gladness, from the shore, 

The sails that bring thy glistening store. 


THE NEW AND THE OLD. 

New are the leaves on the oaken spray, ' 
New the blades of the silky grass ; 

Flowers, that were buds but yesterday, 

Peep from the ground where’er I pass. 

These gay idlers, the butterflies, 

Broke, to-day, from their winter shroud, 

These soft airs, that winnow the skies, 

Blow, just born, from the soft, white cloud 

Gushing fresh in the little streams 
What a prattle the waters make ! 

Even the sun, with his tender beams, 

Seems as young as the flowers they wake. 

Children are wading, with cheerful cries, 

In the shoals of the sparkling brook, 

Laughing maidens, with soft, young eyes, 

W alk or sit in the shady nook. 

What am I doing, thus alone, 

In the glory of nature here, 

Silver-haired, like a snow-flake thrown 
On the greens of the springing year ? 


THE CLOUD ON THE "WAY. 285 

Only for brows unploughed by care, 

Eyes that glisten with hope and mirth, 

Cheeks unwrinkled, and unblanched hair, 

Shines this holiday of the earth. 

Under the grass, with the clammy clay, 

Lie in darkness the last year’s flowers, 

Born of a light that has passed away, 

Dews long dried and forgotten showers. 

“ Under the grass is the fitting home,” 

So they whisper, “ for such as thou, 

When the winter of life is come, 

Chilling the blood, and frosting the brow.” 


THE CLOUD ON THE WAY. 

See before us, in our journey, broods a mist upon the 
ground ; 

Thither leads the path we walk in, blending with that 
gloomy bound. 

Never eye hath pierced its shadows to the mystery 
they screen ; 

Those who once have passed within it never more on 
earth are seen. 

Now it seems to stoop beside us, now at seeming dis- 
tance lowers, 

Leaving banks that tempt us onward bright with 
summer-green and flowers. 

Yet it blots the way forever; there our journey ends 
at last ; 

Into that dark cloud we enter, and are gathered to 
the past. 


28G 


LATEE POEMS. 


Thou who, in this flinty pathway, leading through a 
stranger land, 

Passest down the rocky valley, walking with me hand 
in hand, 

Which of us shall be the soonest folded to that dim 
Unknown ? 

Which shall leave the other walking in this flinty path 
alone ? 

Even now I see thee shudder, and thy cheek is white 
with fear, 

And thou clingest to my side as comes that darkness 
sweeping near. 

“ Here,” thou sayst, “ the path is rugged, sown with 
thorns that wound the feet ; 

But the sheltered glens are lovely, and the rivulet’s 
song is sweet ; 

Roses breathe from tangled thickets ; lilies bend from 
ledges brown ; 

Pleasantly between the pelting showers the sunshine 
gushes down ; 

Bear are those who walk beside us, they whose looks 
and voices make 

All this rugged region cheerful, till I love it for their sake. 

Far be yet the hour that takes me where that chilly 
shadow lies, 

From the things I know and love and from the sight 
of loving eyes.” 

So thou raurmurest, fearful one; but see, we tread a 
rougher way ; 

Fainter grow the gleams of sunshine that upon the 
dark rocks play ; 

Rude winds strew the faded flowers upon the crags 
o’er which we pass ; 

Banks of verdure, when we reach them, hiss with tufts 
of withered grass. 

One by one we miss the voices which we loved so well 
to hear ; 

One by one the kindly faces in that shadow disappear. 


THE TIDES. 287 

Vet upon the mist before us fix thine eyes with closer 
view ; 

See, beneath its sullen skirts, the rosy morning glim- 
mers through. 

One whose feet the thorns have wounded passed that 
barrier and came back, 

With a glory on His footsteps lighting yet the dreary 
track. 

Boldly enter where He entered ; all that seems but 
darkness here, 

When thou once hast passed beyond it, haply shall be 
crystal-clear. 

Viewed from that serener realm, the walks of human 
life may lie, 

Like the page of some familiar volume, open to thine 
eye; 

Haply, from the overhanging shadow, thou mayst 
stretch an unseen hand, 

To support the wavering steps that print with blood 
the nigged land. 

Haply, leaning o’er the pilgrim, all unweeting thou art 
near, 

Thou mayst whisper words of warning or of comfort 
in his ear, 

Till, beyond the border where that brooding mystery 
bars the sight, 

Those whom thou hast fondly cherished stand wilh 
thee in peace and light. 


THE TIDES. 

The moon is at her full, and, riding high, 
Floods the calm fields with light. 

The airs that hover in the summer-sky 
Are all asleep to-night. 


288 


LATEE POEMS. 


There comes no voice from the great woodlands round 
That murmured all the day ; 

Beneath the shadow of their boughs the ground 
Is not more still than they. 


But ever heaves and moans the restless Deep ; 

His rising tides I hear, 

Afar I see the glimmering billows leap ; 

I see them breaking near. 


Each wave springs upward, climbing toward the fair 
Pure light that sits on high — 

Springs eagerly, and faintly sinks, to where 
The mother waters lie. 


Upward again it swells ; the moonbeams show 
Again its glimmering crest ; 

Again it feels the fatal weight below, 

And sinks, but not to rest. 


Again and yet again ; until the Deep 
Itecalls his brood of waves ; 

And, with a sullen moan, abashed, they creep 
Back to his inner caves. 


Brief respite ! they shall rush from that recess 
With noise and tumult soon, 

And fling themselves, with unavailing stress, 

Up toward the placid moon. 

Oh, restless Sea, that, in thy prison here, 

Dost struggle and complain ; 

Through the slow centuries yearning to be near 
To that fair orb in vain ; 


ITALY. 


The glorious source of light and heat must warm 
Thy billows from on high. 

And change them to the cloudy trains that form 
The curtains of the sky. 


Then only may they leave the waste of brine 
In which they welter here, 

And rise above the hills of earth, and shine 
In a serener sphere. 


ITALY. 


Voices from the mountains speak , 
Apennines to Alps reply ; 

Vale to vale and peak to peak 
Toss an old-remembered cry : 

“ Italy 

Shall be free ! ” 

Such the mighty shout that fills 
All the passes of her hills. 

All the old Italian lakes 

Quiver at that quickening word . 
Como with a thrill awakes ; 

Garda to her depths is stirred ; 
Mid the steeps 
Where he sleeps. 
Dreaming of the elder years, 
Startled Thrasymenus hears. 

25 


290 


LATEE POEMS. 


Sweeping Arno, swelling Po, 

Murmur freedom to their meads. 

Tiber swift and Liris slow 

Send strange whispers from their reeds, 
Italy 

Shall be free. 

Sing the glittering brooks that slide. 
Toward the sea, from Etna’s side. 


Long ago was Gracchus slain ; 

Brutus perished long ago ; 

Yet the living roots remain 

Whence the shoots of greatness grow. 
Yet again, 

Godlike men, 

Sprung from that heroic stem, 

Call the land to rise with them. 


They who haunt the swarming street, 
They who chase the mountain boar 
Or, where cliff and billow meet, 

Prune the vine or pull the oar, 
With a stroke 
Break their yoke ; 

Slaves but yestereve were they — 
Freemen with the dawning day. 


Looking in his children’s eyes, 

While his own with gladness flash, 

“ These,” the Umbrian father cries, 

“ Ne’er shall crouch beneath the lash 1 
These shall ne’er 
Brook to wear 

Chains whose cruel links are twined 
Round the crushed and withering mind.” 


A DAY-DEEAM. 


291 


Monarchs ! ye whose armies stand 
Harnessed for the battle-field ! 
Pause, and from the lifted hand 
Drop the bolts of war ye wield. 
Stand aloof 
While the proof 
Of the people’s might is given ; 

Leave their kings to them and heaven. 


Stand aloof, and see the oppressed 
Chase the oppressor, pale with fear, 
As the fresh winds of the west 
Blow the misty valleys clear. 

Stand and see 
Italy 

Cast the gyves she wears no more 
To the gulfs that steep her shore. 


A DAY-DREAM. 


A day-dream by the dark -blue deep ; 

Was it a dream, or something more ? 

I sat where Posilippo’s steep, 

With its gray shelves, o’erhung the shore. 


On ruined Roman walls around 
The poppy flaunted, for ’twas May ; 
And at my feet, with gentle sound, 
Broke the light billows of the bay 


292 


LATEB POEMS. 


I sat and watched the eternal flow 

Of those smooth billows toward the shore, 
While quivering lines of light below, 

Ran with them on the ocean-floor. 


Till, from the deep, there seemed to rise 
White arms upon the waves outspread, 

Young faces, lit with soft blue eyes, 

And smooth, round cheeks, just touched with red. 


Their long, fair tresses, tinged with gold, 
Lay floating on the ocean-streams, 

And such their brows as bards behold — 
Love-stricken bards, in morning dreams. 


Then moved their coral lips ; a strain 
Low, sweet, and sorrowful I heard, 
As if the murmurs of the main 
Were shaped to syllable and word. 


“ The sight thou dimly dost behold, 
Oh, stranger from a distant sky ! 
Was often, in the days of old, 

Seen by the clear, believing eye. 


“ Then danced we on the wrinkled sand. 
Sat in cool caverns by the sea, 

Or wandered up the bloomy land, 

To talk with shepherds on the lea. 


M To us, in storms, the seaman prayed. 
And where our rustic altars stood, 
His little children came and laid 

The fairest flowers of field and wood. 


A DAY-DEEAM. 


“ Oh woe, a long, unending woe ! 

For who shall knit the ties again 
That linked the sea-nymphs, long ago, 
In kindly fellowship with men ? 


“ Earth rears her flowers for us no more ; 

A half-remembered dream are we. 
Unseen we haunt the sunny shore, 

And swim, unmarked, the glassy sea. 


“ And we have none to love or aid, 

But wander, heedless of mankind, 
With shadows by the cloud-rack made, 
With moaning wave and sighing wind. 


“Yet sometimes, as in elder days, 
We come before the painter’s eye, 
Or fix the sculptor’s eager gaze, 
With no profaner witness nigh. 


“ And then the words of men grow warm 
With praise and wonder, asking where 
The artist saw the perfect form 
He copied forth in lines so fair.” 


As thus they spoke, with wavering sweep 
Floated the graceful forms away; 
Dimmer and dimmer, through the deep, 

I saw the white arms gleam and play. 


Fainter and fainter, on mine ear, 

Fell the soft accents of their speech, 

Till T, at last, could only hear 
The waves run murmuring up the beach. 


294 


LATEB POEMS. 


THE RUINS OF ITALICA 

FROM THE SPANISH OF RIOJA. 


I. 

Fabitjs, this region, desolate and drear, 

These solitary fields, this shapeless mound, 

Were once Italica, the far-renowned; 

For Scipio, the mighty, planted here 

His conquering colony, and now, o’erthrown, 

Lie its once-dreaded walls of massive stone. 

Sad relics, sad and vain, 

Of those invincible men 
Who held the region then. 

Funereal memories alone remain 

Where forms of high example walked of yore. 
Here lay the forum, there aVose the fane, 

The eye beholds their places, and no more. 

Their proud gymnasium and their sumptuous baths. 
Resolved to dust and cinders, strew the paths ; 
Their towers, that looked defiance at the sky, 

Fallen by their own vast weight, in fragments lie. 


ii. 

This broken circus, where the rock-weeds climb, 
Flaunting with yellow blossoms, and defy 
The gods to whom its walls were piled so high. 
Is now a tragic theatre, where Time 
Acts bis great fable, spreads a stage that shows 
Past grandeur’s story and its dreary close. 

Why, round this desert pit, 

Shout not the applauding rows 
Where the great people sit ? 


TIIE EUIiSrS OF ITALTCA. 


295 


Wild beasts are here, but where the combatant, 
With his bare arms, the strong athleta where ? 
All have departed from this once gay haunt 
Of noisy crowds, and silence holds the air. 

Vet, on this spot, Time gives us to behold 
A spectacle as stern as those of old. 

As dreamily I gaze, there seem to rise, 

From all the mighty ruin, wailing cries. 


hi. 

The terrible in war, the pride of Spain, 

Trajan, his country’s father, here was born ; 
Good, fortunate, triumphant, to whose reign 
Submitted the far regions, where the morn 
Rose from her cradle, and the shore whose steeps 
O’erlooked the conquered Gaditanian deeps. 

Of mighty Adrian here, 

Of Theodosius, saint, 

Of Silius, Virgil’s peer, 

Wei’e rocked the cradles, rich with gold, and quaint 
With ivory carvings ; here were laurel-boughs 
And sprays of jasmine gathered for their brows, 
From gardens now a marshy, thorny waste. 
Where rose the palace, reared for Caesar, yawn 
Foul rifts to which the scudding lizards haste. 
Palaces, gardens, Caesars, all are gone, 

And even the stones their names were graven on. 


IV. 

Fabius, if tears prevent thee not, survey 

The long-dismantled streets, so thronged of old, 
The broken marbles, arches in decay, 

Proud statues, toppled from their place and rolled 
In dust, when Nemesis, the avenger, came, 

And buried, in forgetfulness profound, 


296 


LATER POEMS. 


The owners and their fame. 

Thus Troy, I deem, must be, 

With many a mouldering mound ; 

And thou, whose name alone remains to thee, 
Rome, of old gods and kings the native ground ; 
And thou, sage Athens, built by Pallas, whom 
Just laws redeemed not from the appointed doom. 
The envy of earth’s cities once wcrt thou, — 

A weary solitude and ashes now. 

For fate and death respect ye not : they strike 
The mighty city and the wise alike. 


y. 

But why goes forth .the wandering thought to frame 
New themes of sorrow, sought in distant lands ? 
Enough the example that before me stands ; 

For here are smoke-wreaths seen, and glimmering 
flame, 

And hoarse lamentings on the breezes die ; 

So doth the mighty ruin cast its spell 
On those who near it dwell. 

And under night’s still sky, 

As awe-struck peasants tell, 

A melancholy voice is heard to cry, 

“ Italica is fallen ; ” the echoes then 
Mournfully shout “ Italica ” again. 

The leafy alleys of the forest nigh 
Murmur “ Italica,” and all around, 

A troop of mighty shadows, at the sound 
Of that illustrious name, repeat the call, 

“ Italica ! ” from ruined tower and wall. 


WAITING BY THE GATE. 


297 


WAITING BY THE GATE. 

Beside a massive gateway built up in years gone by, 
Upon whose top the clouds in eternal shadow lie, 
While streams the evening sunshine on quiet wood 
and lea, 

I stand and calmly wait till the hinges turn for me. 

The tree-tops faintly rustle beneath the breeze’s flight, 
A soft and soothing sound, yet it whispers of the 
night ; 

I hear the wood thrush piping one mellow descant 
more, 

And scent the flowers that blow when the heat of day 
is o’er. 

Behold the portals open, and o’er the threshold, now, 
There steps a weary one with a pale and furrowed 
brow ; 

His count of years is full, his allotted task is wrought ; 
He passes to his rest from a place that needs him not. 

In sadness then I ponder how quickly fleets the hour 
Of human strength and action, man’s courage and his 
power. 

I muse while still the woodthrush sings down the 
golden day, 

And as I look and listen the sadness wears away. 

Again the hinges turn, and a youth, departing, throws 
A look of longing backward, and sorrowfully goes ; 

A blooming maid, unbinding the roses from her hair, 
Moves mournfully away from amidst the young and 


298 


LATEB POEMS. 


Oh glory of our race that so suddenly decays ! 

Oh crimson flush of morning that darkens as we gaze ! 

Oh breath of summer blossoms that on the restless 
air 

Scatters a moment’s sweetness, and flies we know not 
where ! 

I grieve for life’s bright promise, just shown and then 
withdrawn ; 

But still the sun shines round me : the evening bird 
sings on, 

And I again am soothed, and, beside the ancient gate, 

In this soft evening sunlight, I calmly stand and wait. 

Once more the gates are opened ; an infant group go 
out, 

The sweet smile quenched forever, and stilled the 
sprightly shout. 

Oh frail, frail tree of Life, that upon the greensward 
strows 

Its fair young buds unopened, with every wind that 
blows I 

So come from every region, so enter, side by side, 

The strong and faint of spirit, the meek and men' of 
pride. 

Steps of earth’s great and mighty, between those pil- 
lars gray, 

And prints of little feet, mark the dust along the way. 

And some approach the threshold whose looks are 
blank with fear, 

And some whose temples brighten with joy in draw- 
ing near, 

As if they saw dear faces, and caught the gracious 
eye 

Of Him, the Sinless Teacher, who came for us to die. 


NOT TET. 


299 


I mark the joy, the terror ; yet these, within my heart, 
Can neither wake the dread nor the longing to depart ; 
And, in the sunshine streaming on quiet wood and 
lea, 

I stand and calmly wait till the hinges. turn for me. 


NOT YET. 

Oh country, marvel of the earth ! 

Oh realm to sudden greatness grown ! 

The age that gloried in thy birth, 

Shall it behold thee overthrown ? 

Shall traitors lay that greatness low ? 

No, land of Hope and Blessing, No ! 

And we, who we,ar thy glorious name, 
Shall we, like cravens, stand apart, 

When those whom thou hast trusted aim 
The death-blow at thy generous heart ? 

Forth goes the battle-cry, and lo ! 

Hosts rise in harness, shouting, No ! 

And they who founded, in our land, 

The power that rules from sea to sea, 

Bled they in vain, or vainly planned 
To leave their country great and free ? 

Their sleeping ashes, from below, 

Send up the thrilling murmur, No ! 

Knit they the gentle ties which long 
These sister States were proud to wear, 

And forged the kindly links so strong 
For idle hands in sport to tear ? 


300 


LATEK POEMS. 


For scornful hands aside to throw ? 

No, by our father’s memory, No ! 

Our humming marts, our iron ways, 

Our wind-tossed woods on mountain- crest, 
The hoarse Atlantic, with its bays, 

The calm, broad Ocean of the West, 

And Mississippi’s torrent-flow, 

And loud Niagara, answer, No ! 

Not yet the hour is nigh when they 
Who deep in Eld’s dim twilight sit, 
Earth’s ancient kings, shall rise and say, 

“ Proud country, welcome to the pit ! 

So soon art thou, like us, brought low I ” 
No, sullen group of shadows, No ! 

For now, behold, the arm that gave 
The victory in our fathers’ day, 

Strong, as of old, to guard and save — 

That mighty arm which none can stay — 
On clouds above and fields below, 

Writes, in men’s sight, the answer, No • 

July , 1861 . 




OUR COUNTRY’S CALL. 

Lay down the axe ; fling by the spade ; 

Leave in its track the toiling plough ; 
The rifle and the bayonet-blade 
For arms like yours were fitter now ; 


our country’s Call. 


301 


And let the hands that ply the pen 
Quit the light task, and learu to wield 

The horseman’s crooked brand, and rein 
The charger on the battle-field. 

Our country calls ; away ! away ! 

To where the blood-stream blots the green. 

Strike to defend the gentlest sway 
That Time in all his course has seen. 

See, from a thousand coverts — see, 

Spring the armed foes that haunt her track ; 

They rush to smite her down, and we 
Must beat the banded traitors back. 

Ho ! sturdy as the oaks ye cleave, 

And moved as soon to fear and flight, 

Men of the glade and forest ! leave 
Your woodcraft for the field of fight. 

The arms that wield the axe must pour 
An iron tempest on the foe ; 

His serried ranks shall reel before 
The arm that lays the panther low. 

And ye, who breast the mountain-storm 
By grassy steep or highland lake, 

Come, for the land ye love, to form 
A bulwark that no foe can break. 

Stand, like your own gray cliffs that mock 
The whirlwind, stand in her defence ; 

The blast as soon shall move the rock 
As rushing squadrons bear ye thence. 

And ye, whose homes are by her grand 
Swift rivers, rising far away, 

Come from the depth of her green land, 

As mighty in your march as they ; 

As terrible as when the rains 
Have swelled them over bank and bourne, 

26 


302 


LATER POKMB. 


With sudden floods to drown the plains 
And sweep along the woods uptorn. 

And ye, who throng, beside the deep, 

Her ports and hamlets of the strand, 

In number like the waves that leap 
On his long murmuring marge of sand, 
Come, like that deep, when, o’er his brim, 
He rises, all his floods to pour, 

And flings the proudest barks that swim, 
A helpless wreck, against his shore. 

Few, few were they whose swords of old 
Won the fair land in which we dwell; 
But we are many, we who hold 
The grim resolve to guard it well. 
Strike, for that broad and goodly land, 
Blow after blow, till men shall see 
That Might and Right move hand in hand, 
And glorious must their triumph be ! 

(September, 1861 . 


THE CONSTELLATIONS. 

Oh, Constellations of the early night 
That sparkled brighter as the twilight died, 

And made the darkness glorious ! I have seen 
Your rays grow dim upon the horizon’s edge, 
And sink behind the mountains. I have seen 
The great Orion, with his jewelled belt. 

That large-limbed warrior of the skies, go down 
Into the gloom. Beside him sank a crowd 
Of shining ones. I look in vain to find 


THE CONSTELLATIONS. 


303 


The group of sister-stars, which mothers love 
To show their wondering babes, the gentle Seven. 
Along the desert space mine eyes in vain 
Seek the resplendent cressets w'hich the Twins 
Uplifted in their ever-youthful hands. 

The streaming tresses of the Egyptian Queen 
Spangle the heavens no more. The Virgin trails 
No more her glittering garments through the blue. 
Gone ! all are gone ! and the forsaken Night, 

With all her winds, in all her dreary wastes, 

Sighs that they shine upon her face no more. 

Now only here and there a little star 
Looks forth alone. Ah me ! I know them not, 
Those dim successors of the numberless host 
That filled the heavenly fields, and flung to earth 
Their quivering fires. And now the middle watch 
Betwixt the eve and morn is past, and still 
The darkness gains upon the sky, and still 
It closes round my way. Shall, then, the Night, 
Grow starless in her later hours ? Have these 
No train of flaming watchers, that shall mark 
Their coming and farewell ? Oh Sons of Light ! 
Have ye then left me ere the dawn of day 
To grope along my journey sad and faint ? 

Thus I complained, and from the darkness round 
A voice replied — was it indeed a voice, 

Or seeming accents of a waking dream 
Heard by the inner ear ? But thus it said : 

Oh, Traveller of the Night ! thine eyes are dim 
With watching ; and the mists, that chill the vale 
Down which thy feet are passing, hide from view 
The ever-burning stars. It is thy sight 
That is so dark, and not the heavens. Thine eyes, 
Were they but clear, would see a fiery host 
Above thee ; Hercules, with flashing mace, 

The Lyre with silver chords, the Swan uppoised 
On gleaming wings, the Dolphin gliding on 
With glistening scales, and that poetic steed, 


304 


LATER POEMS. 


With beamy mane, whose hoof struck out from earth 
The fount of Hippocrene, and many more, 

Fair clustered splendors, with whose rays the Night 
Shall close her march in glory, ere she yield, 

To the young Day, the great earth steeped in dew. 

So spake the monitor, and I perceived 
How vain were my repinincs, and my thought 
Went backward to the vanished years and all 
The good and great who came and passed with them, 
And knew that ever would the years to come 
Bring with them, in their course, the good and great, 
Lights of the world, though, to my clouded sight, 
Their rays might seem but dim, or reach me not. 


THE THIRD OF NOVEMBER, 1861. 


Softly breathes the west-wind beside the ruddy 
forest, 

Taking leaf by leaf from the branches where he 
flies. 

Sweetly streams the sunshine, this third day of No- 
vember, 

Through the golden haze of the quiet autumn skies. 


Tenderly the season lias spared the grassy meadows, 
Spared the petted flowers that the old world gave 
the new, 

Spared the autumn-rose and the garden’s group of 
pansies, 

Late-blown dandelions and periwinkles blue. 


THE THIRD OF NOVEMBER, 1861. 305 

On my cornice linger the ripe black grapes un- 
gathered ; 

Children fill the groves with the echoes of their 
glee, 

Gathering tawny chestnuts, and shouting when beside 
them 

Drops the heavy fruit of the tall black-walnut tree. 

Glorious are the woods in their latest gold and crimson, 
Yet our full-leaved willows are in their freshest 
green. 

Such a kindly autumn, so mercifully dealing 

With the growths of summer, I never yet have 
seen. 

Like this kindly season may life’s decline come o’er 
me ; 

Past is manhood’s summer, the frosty months are 
here; 

Yet be genial airs and a pleasant sunshine left me, 
Leaf, and fruit, and blossom, to mark the closing 
year. 

Dreary is the time when the flowers of earth are 
withered ; 

Dreary is the time when the woodland leaves are 
cast, 

When, upon the hillside, all hardened into iron, 
Howling, like a wolf, flies the famished northern 
blast. 

Dreary are the years when the eye can look no longer 
With delight on nature, or hope on human kind ; 

Oh may those that whiten my temples, as they pass 
me, 

Leave the heart unfrozen, and spare the cheerful 
mind 1 


LATEK POEMS. 


THE MOTHER’S HYMN. 

Lord, who ordainest for mankind 
Benignant toils and tender cares ! 
We thank Thee for the ties that bind 
The mother to the child she bears. 


We thank Thee for the hopes that rise, 
Within her heart, as, day by day, 

The dawning soul, from those young eyes, 
Looks, with a clearer, steadier ray. 


And grateful for the blessing given 
With that dear infant on her knee, 
She trains the eye to look to heaven, 
The voice to iisp a prayer to Thee. 


Such thanks the blessed Mary gave, 

When, from her lap, the Holy Child 
Sent from on high to seek and save 

The lost of earth, looked up and smiled. 

All-Gracious! grant, to those who bear 
A mother’s charge, the strength and light 
To lead the steps that own their care 
In (vays of Love, and Truth, and Ri'ght 


SELLA. 


307 


SELLA. 

Hear now a legend of the days of old — 

The days when there were goodly marvels yet, 

When man to man gave willing faith, and loved 
A tale the better that ’twas wild and strange. 

Beside a pleasant dwelling ran a brook 
Scudding along a narrow channel, paved 
With green and yellow pebbles ; yet full clear 
Its waters were, and colorless and cool, 

As fresh from granite rocks. A maiden oft 
Stood at the open window, leaning out, 

And listening to the sound the water made, 

A sweet, eternal murmur, still the same, 

And not the same ; and oft, as spring came on, 

She gathered violets from its fresh moist bank, 

To place within her bower, and when the herbs 
Of summer drooped beneath the mid-day sun, 

She sat within the shade of a great rock, 

Dreamily listening to the streamlet’s song. 

Ripe were the maiden’s years ; her stature showed 
Womanly beauty, and her clear, calm eye 
Was bright with venturous spirit, yet her face 
Was passionless, like those by sculptor graved 
For niches in a temple. Lovers oft 
Had wooed her, but she only laughed at love, 

And wondered at the silly things they said. 

’Twas her delight to wander where wild vines 
O’erhang the river’s brim, to climb the path 
Of woodland streamlet to its mountain-springs, 

To sit by gleaming wells and mark below 
The image of the rushes on its edge, 

And, deep beyond, the trailing clouds that slid 
Across the fair blue space No little fount 


808 


LATER POEM.3. 


Stole forth from hanging rock, or in the side 
Of hollow dell, or under roots of oak, 

No rill came trickling, with a stripe of green, 

Down the bare hill, that to this maiden’s eye 

Was not familiar. Often did the banks 

Of river or of sylvan lakelet hear 

The dip of oars with which the maiden rowed 

Her shallop, pushing ever from the prow 

A crowd of long, light ripples toward the shore. 

Two brothers had the maiden, and she thought. 
Within herself : “ I would I were like them ; 

For then I might go forth alone, to trace 
The mighty rivers downward to the sea, 

And upward to the brooks that, through the year, 
Prattle to the cool valleys. I would know 
What races drink their waters ; how their chiefs 
Bear rule, and how men worship there, and how 
They build, and to what quaint device they frame, 
Where sea and river meet, their stately ships ; 

What flowers are in their gardens, and what trees 
Bear fruit within their orchards ; in what garb 
Their bowmen meet on holidays, and how 
Their maidens bind the waist and braid the hair. 
Here, on these hills, my father’s house o’erlooks 
Broad pastures grazed by flocks and herds, but there 
I hear they sprinkle the great plains with corn 
And watch its springing up, and when the green 
Is changed to gold, they cut the stems and bring 
The harvest in, and give the nations bread. 

And there they hew the quarry into shafts, 

And pile up glorious temples from the rock, 

And chisel the rude stones to shapes of men. 

All this I pine to see, and would have seen, 

But that I am a woman, long ago.” 

Thus in her wanderings did the maiden dream, 
Until, at length, one morn in early spring, 

When all the glistening fields lay white with frost, 
Ehe came half breathless where her mother sat : 


SELLA. 


309 


‘See, mother dear,” she said, “ what I have found, 
Upon our rivulet’s bank ; two slippers, white 
As the midwinter snow, and spangled o’er 
With twinkling points, like stars, and on the edge 
My name is wrought in silver ; read, I pray, 

Sella, the name thy mother, now in heaven, 

Gave at my birth ; and sure, they fit my feet ! ” 

“ A dainty pair,” the prudent matron said, 

“ But thine they are not. We must lay them by 

For those, whose careless hands have left them here ; 

Or haply they were placed beside the brook 

To be a snare. I cannot see thy name 

Upon the border, — only characters 

Of mystic look and dim are there, like signs 

Of some strange art ; nay, daughter, wear them not.” 

Then Sella hung the slippers in the porch 
Of that broad rustic lodge, and all who passed, 
Admired their fair contexture, but none knew 
Who left them by the brook. And now, at length, 
May, with her flowers and singing birds, had gone, 
And on bright streams and into deep wells shone 
The high, midsummer sun. One day, at noon, 

Sella was missed from the accustomed meal. 

They sought her in her favorite haunts, they looked 
By the great rock, and far along the stream, 

And shouted in the sounding woods her name. 

Night came, and forth the sorrowing household went 
With torches over the wide pasture-grounds 
To pool and thicket, marsh and briery dell, 

And solitary valley far away. 

The morning came, and Sella was not found. 

The sun climbed high ; they sought her still ; the 
noon, 

The hot and silent noon, heard Sella’s name, 

Uttered with a despairing cry, to wastes 
O’er which the eagle hovered. As the sun 
Stooped toward the amber west to bring the close 
Of that sad second day, and, with red eyes, 


310 


LATER POEMS. 


The mother sat within her home alone, 

Sella was at her side. A shriek of joy 

Broke the sad silence ; glad, warm tears were shed, 

And words of gladness uttered. “ Oh, forgive, 1 ’ 

The maiden said, “that I could e’er forget 

Thy wishes for a moment. I just tried 

The slippers on, amazed to see them shaped 

So fairly to my feet, when, all at once, 

I felt my steps upborne and hurried on 
Almost as if with wings. A strange delight, 

Blent with a thrill of fear, o’erraastered me, 

And, ere I knew, my plashing steps were set 
Within the rivulet’s pebbly bed, and I 
Was rushing down the current. By my side 
Tripped one as beautiful as ever looked 
From white clouds in a dream ; and, as we ran, 

She talked with musical voice and sweetly laughed 
Gayly we leaped the crag and swam the pool, 

And swept with dimpling eddies round the rock, 
And glided between shady meadow-banks. 

The streamlet, broadening as we went, became 
A swelling river, and we shot along 
By stately towns, and under leaning masts 
Of gallant barks, nor lingered by the shore 
Of blooming gardens ; onward, onward still, 

The same strong impulse bore me till, at last, 

We entered the great deep, and passed below 

His billows, into boundless spaces, lit 

With a green sunshine. Here were mighty groves 

Far down the ocean-valleys, and between 

Lay what might seem fair meadows, softly tinged 

With orange and with crimson. Here arose 

Tall stems, that, rooted in the depths below, 

Swung idly with the motions of the sea ; 

And here were shrubberies in whose mazy screen 
The creatures of the deep made haunt. My friend 
Named the strange growths, the pretty coralline, 
The dulse with crimson leaves, and, streaming far, 


SELLA. 


311 


Sea-thong and sea-lace. Here the tangle spread 
Its broad, thick fronds, with pleasant bowers beneath ; 
And oft we trod a waste of pearly sands, 

Spotted with rosy shells, and thence looked in 
At caverns of the sea whose rock-roofed halls 
Lay in blue twilight. As we moved along, 

The dwellers of the deep, in mighty herds, 

Passed by us, reverently they passed us by, 

Long trains of dolphins rolling through the brine, 
Huge whales, that drew the waters after them, 

A torrent-stream, and hideous hammer-sharks, 
Chasing their prey ; I shuddered as they came ; 
Gently they turned aside and gave us room.” 

Hereat broke in the mother, “ Sella, dear, 

This is a dream, the idlest, vainest dream.” 

“ Nay, mother, nay ; behold this sea-green scarf, 
Woven of such threads as never human hand 
Twined from the distaff. She who led my way 
Through the great waters, bade me wear it home, 

A token that my tale is true. ‘ And keep,’ 

She said, ‘ the slippers thou hast found, for thou, 
When shod with them, shalt be like one of us, 

With power to walk at will the ocean-floor, 

Among its monstrous creatures, unafraid, 

And feel no longing for the air of heaven 
To fill thy lungs, and send the warm, red blood 
Along thy veins. But thou shalt pass the hours 
In dances with the sea-nymphs, or go forth, 

To look into the mysteries of the abyss 

Where never plummet reached. And thou shalt sleep 

Thy weariness away on downy banks 

Of sea-moss, where the pulses of the tide 

Shall gently lift thy hair, or thou shalt float 

On the soft currents that go forth and wind 

From isle to isle, and wander through the sea.’ 

“ So spake my fellow-voyager, her words 
Sounding like wavelets on a summer shore, 

And then we stopped beside a banging rock 


312 


LATER POEMS. 


With a smooth beach of white sands at its foot, 
Where three fair creatures like herself were set 
At their sea-banquet, crisp and juicy stalks, 

Culled from the ocean’s meadows, and the sweet 
Midrib of pleasant leaves, and golden fruits 
Dropped from the trees that edge the southern isles, 
And gathered on the waves. Kindly they prayed 
That I would share their meal, and I partook 
With eager appetite, for long had been 
My journey, and I left the spot refreshed. 

“And then we wandered off amid the groves 
Of coral loftier than the growths of earth ; 

The mightiest cedar lifts no trunk like theirs, 

So huge, so high, toward heaven, nor overhangs 
Alleys and- bowers so dim. We moved between 
Pinnacles*of black rock, which, from beneath, 

Molten by inner fires, so said my guide, 

Gushed long ago into the hissing brine, 

That quenched and hardened them, and now they 
stand 

Motionless in the currents of the sea 

That part and flow around them. As we went, 

We looked into the hollows of the abyss, 

To which the never-resting waters sweep 
The skeletons of sharks, the long white spines 
Of narwhale and of dolphin, bones of men 
Shipwrecked, and mighty ribs of foundered barks. 
Down the blue pits we looked, and hastened on. 

“ But beautiful the fountains of the sea 
Sprang upward from its bed ; the silvery jets 
Shot branching far into the azure brine, 

And where they mingled with it, the great deep 
Quivered and shook, as shakes the glimmering air 
Above a furnace. So we wandered through 
The mighty world of waters, till at length 
I wearied of its wonders, and my heart 
Began to yearn for my dear mountain-home. 

I prayed my gentle guide to lead me back 


SELLA. 


313 


To the upper air. ‘ A glorious realm,’ I said, 

‘ Is this thou openest to me ; but I stray 
Bewildered in its vastDess ; these strange sights 
And this strange light oppress me. I must see 
The faces that I love, or I shall die.’ 

“She took my hand, and, darting through the 
waves, 

Brought me to where the stream, by which we came, 
Rushed into the main ocean. Then began 
A slower journey upward. Wearily 
We breasted the strong current, climbing through 
The rapids tossing high their foam. The night 
Came down, and, in the clear depth of a pool, 

Edged with o’erhanging rock, we took our rest 
Till morning ; and I slept, and dreamed of home 
And thee. A pleasant sight the morning showed ; 
The green fields of this upper world, the herds 
That grazed the bank, the light on the red clouds, 
The trees, with all their host of trembling leaves, 
Lifting and lowering to the restless wind 
Their branches. As I woke I saw them all 
From the clear stream ; yet strangely was my heart 
Parted between the watery world and this, 

And as we journeyed upward, oft I thought 
Of marvels I had seen, and stopped and turned, 

And lingered, till I thought of thee again ; 

And then again I turned and clambered up 
The rivulet’s murmuring path, until we came 
Beside this cottage door. There tenderly 
My fair conductor kissed me, and I saw 
Her face no more. I took the slippers olf. 

Oh ! with what deep delight my lungs drew in 
The air of heaven again, and with what joy 
I felt my blood bound with its former glow ; 

And now I never leave thv side again ! ” 

So spoke the maiden Sella, with large tears 
Standing in her mild eyes, and in the porch 
Replaced the slippers. Autumn came and went ; 

27 


314 


LATEE POEMS. 


The winter passed ; another summer warmed 

The quiet pools ; another autumn tinged 

The grape with red, yet while it hung unpluc&ed, 

The mother ere her time was carried forth 
To sleep among the solitary hills. 

A long, still sadness settled on that home 
Among the mountains. The stern father there 
Wept with his children, and grew soft of heart, 

And Sella, and the brothers twain, and one 
Younger than they, a sister fair and shy, 

Strewed the new grave with flowers, and round it set 
Shrubs that all winter held their lively green. 

Time passed ; the grief with which their hearts were 
wrung 

Waned to a gentle sorrow. Sella, now, 

Was often absent from the patriarch’s board ; 

The slippers hung no longer in the porch ; 

And sometimes after summer nights her couch 
Was found unpressed at dawn, and well they knew 
That she was wandering with the race who make 
Their dwelling in the waters. Oft her looks 
Fixed on blank space, and oft the ill suited word 
Told that her thoughts were far away. In vain 
Her brothers reasoned with her tenderly. 

“ Oh leave not thus thy kindred ! ” so they prayed ; 

“ Dear Sella, now that she who gave us birth 
Is in her grave, oh go not hence, to seek 
Companions in that strange cold realm below, 

For which God made not us nor thee, but stay 
To be the grace and glory of our home.” 

She looked at them with those mild eyes and wept, 
But said no word in answer, nor refrained 
From those mysterious wanderings that filled 
Their loving hearts with a perpetual pain. 

And now the younger sister, fair and shy, 

Had grown to early womanhood, and one 
Who loved her well had wooed her for his bride, 

And she had named the wedding-day. The herd 


SELLA. 


315 


Had given its fatlings for the marriage-feast ; 

The roadside garden and the secret glen 
Were rifled of their sweetest flowers to twine 
The door-posts, and to lie among the locks 
Of maids, the wedding-guests, and from the boughs 
Of mountain-orchards had the fairest fruit 
Been plucked to glisten in the canisters. 

Then, trooping over hill and valley, came 
Matron and maid, grave men and smiling youths, 

Like swallows gathering for their autumn flight, 

In costumes of that simpler age they came, 

That gave the limbs large play, and wrapped the form 
In easy folds, yet bright with glowing hues 
As suited holidays. All hastened on 
To that glad bridal. There already stood 
The priest prepared to say the spousal rite, 

And there the harpers in due order sat, 

And there the singers. Sella, midst them all, 

Moved strangely and serenely beautiful, 

With clear blue eyes, fair locks, and brow and cheek 
Colorless as the lily of the lakes, 

Yet moulded to such shape as artists give 
To beings of immortal youth. Her hands 
Had decked her sister for the bridal hour 
With chosen flowers, and lawn whose delicate threads 
Vied with the spider’s spinning. There she stood 
With such a gentle pleasure in her looks 
As might beseem a river-nymph’s soft eyes 
Gracing a bridal of the race whose flocks 
Were pastured on the borders of her stream. 

She smiled, but from that calm sweet face the smile 
Was soon to pass away. That very morn 
The elder of the brothers, as he stood 
Upon the hillside, had beheld the maid, 

Emerging from the channel of the brook, 

With three fresh water-lilies in her hand, 

Wring dry her dripping locks, and in a cleft 
Df hanging rock, beside a screen of boughs, 


316 


LATER POEMS. 


Bestow the spangled slippers. None before 
Had known where Sella hid them. Then she laid 
The light-brown tresses smooth, and in them twined 
The lily-buds, and hastily drew forth 
And threw across her shoulders a light robe 
Wrought for the bridal, and with bounding steps 
Ran toward the lodge. The youth beheld and marked 
The spot and slowly followed from afar. 

Now had the marriage-rite been said ; the bride 
Stood in the blush that from her burning cheek 
Glowed down the alabaster neck, as morn 
Crimsons the pearly heaven halfway to the west. 

At once the harpers struck their chords ; a gush 
Of music broke upon the air ; the youths 
All started to the dance. Among them moved 
The queenly Sella with a grace that seemed 
Caught from the swaying of the summer sea. 

The young drew forth the elders to the dance, 

Who joined it half abashed, but when they felt 
The joyous music tingling in their veins, 

They called for quaint old measures, which they trod 
As gayly as in youth, and far abroad 
Came through the open windows cheerful shouts 
And bursts of laughter. They who heard the sound 
Upon the mountain footpaths paused and said, 

“ A merry wedding.” Lovers stole away 
That sunny afternoon to bowers that edged 
The garden-w ; alks, and what was whispered there 
The lovers of these later times can guess. 

Meanwhile the brothers, when the merry din 
Was loudest, stole to where the slippers lay, 

And took them thence, and followed down the brook 

To where a little rapid rushed between 

Its borders of smooth rock, and dropped them in. 

The rivulet, as they touched its face, flung up 

Its small bright waves like hands, and seemed to take 

The prize with eagerness and draw it down. 

They, gleaming through the waters as they wont, 


SELLA. 


317 


And striking with light sound the shining stones, 

Slid down the stream. The brothers looked and 
watched 

And listened with full beating hearts till now 
The sight and sound had passed, and silently 
And half repentant hastened to the lodge. 

The sun was near his set ; the music rang 
Within the dwelling still, but the mirth waned ; 

For groups of guests were sauntering toward their 
homes 

Across the fields, and far, on hillside paths, 

Gleamed the white robes of maidens. Sella grew 
Weary of the long merriment ; she thought 
Of her still haunts beneath the soundless sea, 

And all unseen withdrew and sought the cleft 
Where she had laid the slippers. They were gone ! 
She searched the brookside near, yet found them not. 
Then her heart sank within her, and she ran 
Wildly from place to place, and once again 
She searched the secret cleft, and next she stooped 
And with spread palms felt carefully beneath 
The tufted herbs and bushes, and again. 

And yet again she searched the rocky cleft. 

“Who could have taken them?” That question 
cleared 

The mystery. She remembered suddenly 
That when the dance was in its gayest whirl, 

Her brothers were not seen, and when, at length, 
They reappeared, the elder joined the sports 
With shouts of boisterous mirth, and from her eye 
The younger shrank in silence. “Now, I know 
The guilty ones,” she said, and left the spot, 

And stood before the youths with such a look 
Of anguish and reproach that well they knew 
Her thought, and almost wished the deed undone. 

Frankly they owned the charge : “And pardon us ; 
We did it all in love ; we could not bear 
That the cold world of waters and the strange 


318 


LATEE POEMS. 


Beings that dwell within it should beguile 
Our sister from us.” Then they told her all ; 

How they had seen her stealthily bestow 
The slippers in the cleft, and how by stealth 
They took them thence and bore them down the 
brook, 

And dropped them in, and how the eager waves 
Gathered and drew them down : but at that word 
The maiden shrieked — a broken-hearted shriek— 

And all who heard it shuddered and turned pale 
At the despairing cry, and “ They are gone,” 

She said, “ gone — gone forever ! Cruel ones ! 

’Tis you who shut me out eternally 

From that serener world which I had learned 

To love so well. Why took ye not my life ? 

Ye cannot know what ye have done.” She spake 
And hurried to her chamber, and the guests 
Who yet had lingered silently withdrew. 

The brothers followed to the maiden’s bower, 

But with a calm demeanor, as they came, 

She met them at the door. “ The wrong is great,” 
She said, “ that ye have done me, but no power 
Have ye to make it less, nor yet to soothe 
My sorrow ; I shall bear it as I may, 

The better for the hours that I have passed 
In the calm region of the middle sea. 

Go, then. I need you not.” They, overawed, 
Withdrew from that grave presence. Then her tears 
Broke forth a flood, as when the August cloud, 
Darkening beside the mountain, suddenly 
Melts into streams of rain. That weary night 
She paced her chamber, murmuring as she walked, 

“ Oh peaceful region of the middle sea ! 

Oh azure bowers and grots, in which I loved 
To roam and rest ! Am I to long for you, 

And think how strangely beautiful ye are, 

Yet never see you more ? And dearer yet, 

5Te gentle ones in whose sweet company 


BELLA. 


319 


trod the shelly pavements of the deep, 

And swam its currents, creatures with calm eyes 
Looking the tenderest love, and voices soft 
As ripple of light waves along the shore, 

Uttering the tenderest words ! Oh ! ne’er again 
Shall I, in your mild aspects, read the peace 
That dwells within and vainly shall I pine 
To hear your sweet low voices. Haply now 
Ye miss me in your deep-sea home, and think 
Of me with pity, as of one condemned 
To haunt this upper world, with its harsh sounds 
And glaring lights, its withering heats, its frosts, 
Cruel and killing, its delirious strifes, 

And all its feverish passions, till I die.” 

So mourned she the loQg night, and when the morn 
Brightened the mountains, from her lattice looked 
The maiden on a world that was to her 
A desolate and dreary waste. That day 
She passed in wandering by the brook that oft 
Had been her pathway to the sea, and still 
Seemed, with its cheerful murmur, to invite 
Her footsteps thither. “ Well mayst thou rejoice, 
Fortunate stream ! ” she said, “ and dance along 
Thy bed, and make thy course one ceaseless strain 
Of music, for thou journeyest toward the deep, 

To which I shall return no more.” The night 
Brought her to her lone chamber, and she knelt 
And prayed, with many tears, to Him whose hand 
Touches the wounded heart and it is healed. 

With prayer there came new thoughts and new de> 
sires. 

She asked for patience and a deeper love 
For those with whom her lot was henceforth cast, 
And that in acts of mercy she might lose 
The sense of her own sorrow. When she rose 
A weight was lifted from her heart. She sought 
Her couch, and slept a long and peaceful sleep. 

At morn she woke to a new life. Her days 


320 


LATER POEMS. 


Henceforth were given to quiet tasks of good 
In the great world. Men hearkened to her words, 
And wondered at their wisdom and obeyed, 

And saw how beautiful the law of love 
Can make the care3 and toils of daily life. 

Still did she love to haunt the springs and brooks, 
As in her cheerful childhood, and she taught 
The skill to pierce the soil and meet the veins 
Of clear cold water winding underneath, 

And call them forth to daylight. From afar 
She bade men bring the rivers on long rows 
Of pillared arches to the sultry town, 

And on the hot air of the summer fling 
The spray of dashing fountains. To relieve 
Their weary hands, she showed them how to tamo 
The rushing stream, and make him drive the wheel 
That whirls the humming millstone and that wields 
The ponderous sledge. The waters of the cloud, 
That drench the hillside in the time of rains, 

Were gathered at her bidding into pools, 

And in the months of drought led forth again, 

In glimmering rivulets, to refresh the vales, 

Till the sky darkened with returning showers. 

So passed her life, a long and blameless life, 

And far and near her name was named with love 
And reverence. Still she kept, as age came on, 

Her stately presence ; still her eyes looked forth 
From under their calm brows as brightly clear 
As the transparent wells by which she sat 
So oft in childhood. Still she kept her fair 
Unwrinkled features, though her locks were white. 
A hundred times had summer, since her birth, 
Opened the water-lily on the lakes, 

So old traditions tell, before she died. 

A hundred cities mourned her, and her death 
Saddened the pastoral valleys. By the brook, 

That bickering ran beside the cottage-door 
Where she was born, they reared her monument 


FIFTH BOOK OF HOMEfi’s ODYSSEY. 321 


Ere long the current parted and flowed round 
The marble base, forming a little isle, 

And there the flowers that love the running stream, 
Iris and orchis, and the cardinal flower, 

Crowded and hung caressingly around 

The stone engraved with Sella’s honored name. 


THE FIFTH BOOK OF HOMER’S ODYSSEY. 

TRANSLATED. 

Aurora, rising from her couch beside 
The famed Tithonus, brought the light of day 
To men and to immortals. Then the gods 
Came to their seats in council. With them came 
High-thundering Jupiter, amongst them all 
The mightiest. Pallas, mindful of the past, 

Spoke of Ulysses and his many woes, 

Grieved that he still was with the island nymph. 

“ Oh, father Jove, and all ye blessed ones 
Who live forever! let not sceptred king, 

Henceforth, be gracious, mild, and merciful, 

And righteous ; rather be he deaf to prayer, 

And prone to deeds of wrong, since no one now 
Remembers the divine Ulysses more 
Among the people over whom he ruled, 

Benignly, like a father. Still he lies, 

Weighed down by many sorrows, in the isle 
And dwelling of Calypso, who so long 
Constrains his stay. To his dear native land 
Depart he cannot ; ship, arrayed with oars, 

And seamen has he none, to bear him o’er 
The breast of the broad ocean. Nay, even now, 


322 


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Against his well-beloved son a plot 
Is laid, to slay him as he journeys home 
From Pylos the divine, and from the walls 
Of famous Sparta, whither he had gone 
To gather tidings of his father’s fate.” 

Then answered her the ruler of the storms : 

“ My child, what words are these that pass thy lips ? 
Was not thy long-determined counsel this, 

That, in good time, Ulysses should return, 

To be avenged ? Guide, then, Telemachus, 

Wisely, for so thou canst, that, all unharmed, 

He reach his native land, and, in their barks, 
Homeward the suitor-train retrace their way.” 

He spoke, and turned to Hermes, his dear son : 

“ Hermes, for thou, in this, my messenger 
Art, as in all things, to the bright-haired nymph 
Make known my steadfast purpose, the return 
Of suffering Ulysses. Neither gods 
Nor men shall guide his voyage. On a raft, 

Made firm with bands, he shall depart and reach, 
After long hardships, on the twentieth day, 

The fertile shore of Scheria, on whose isle 
Dwell the Pheacians, kinsmen of the gods. 

They like a god shall honor him, and thence 
Send him to his loved country in a ship, 

With ample gifts of brass and gold, and store 
Of raiment — wealth like which he ne’er had brought 
From conquered Ilion, had he reached his home 
Safely, with all his portion of the spoil. 

So is it preordained, that he behold 

His friends again, and stand once more within 

His high-roofed palace, on his native soil.” 

He spake ; the herald Argicide obeyed, 

And hastily beneath his feet he bound 
The fair, ambrosial, golden sandals, worn 
To bear him over ocean like the wind, 

And o’er the boundless land. His wand he took. 
Wherewith he softly seals the eyes of men, 


FIFTH BOOK OF HOMER'S ODYSSEY. 323 


And opens them at will from sleep. With this 
In hand, the mighty Argos-queller flew, 

And lighting on Pieria, from the sky 
Plunged downward to the deep, and skimmed its fac$ 
Like hovering sea-mew, that on the broad gulfs 
Of the unfruitful ocean seeks her prey, 

And often dips her pinions in the brine. 

So Hermes flew along the waste of waves. 

But when he reached that island, far away, 

Forth from the dark blue ocean-swell he stepped 
Upon the sea-beach, walking till he came 
To the vast cave in which the bright-haired nymph 
Made her abode. He found the nymph within. 

A fire blazed brightly on the hearth, and far 
Was wafted o’er the isle the fragrant smoke 
Of cloven cedar, burning in the flame, 

And cypress-wood. Meanwhile, in her recess, 

She sweetly sang, as busily she threw 

The golden shuttle through the web she wove. 

And all about the grotto alders grew, 

And poplars, and sweet-smelling cypresses, 

In a green forest, high among whose boughs 
Birds of broad wing, wood-owls and falcons, built 
Their nests, and crows, with voices sounding far, 

All haunting for their food the ocean-side. 

A vine, with downy leaves and clustering grapes, 
Crept over all the cavern-rock. Four springs 
Poured forth their glittering waters in a row, 

And here and there went wandering side by side. 
Around were meadows of soft green, o’ergrown 
With violets and parsley. ’Twas a spot 
Where even an Immortal might, awhile, 

Linger, and gaze with wonder and delight. 

The herald Argos-queller stood, and saw, 

And marvelled ; but as soon as he had viewed 
The wonders of the place, he turned his steps, 
Entering the broad-roofed cave. Calypso there, 

The glorious goddess, saw him as he came, 


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And knew him, for the ever-living gods 

Are to each other known, though one may dwell 

Far from the rest. Ulysses, large of heart, 

Was not within. Apart, upon the shore, 

He sat and sorrowed, where he oft, in tears 
And sighs and vain repinings, passed the hours, 
Gazing with wet eyes on the barren deep. 

Now, placing Hermes on a shining seat 
Of state, Calypso, glorious goddess, said : 

“ Thou of the golden wand, revered and loved, 
What, Hermes, brings thee hither ? Passing few 
Have been thy visits. Make thy pleasure known. 

My heart enjoins me to obey, if aught 
That thou commandest be within my power. 

But first accept the offerings due a guest.” 

The goddess, speaking thus, before him placed 
A table where the heaped ambrosia lay, 

Aad mingled the red nectar. Ate and drank 
The herald Argos-queller, and, refreshed, 

Answered the nymph, and made his message known ' 

“ Art thou a goddess, and dost ask of me, 

A god, why came I hither ? Yet, since thou 
Requirest, I will truly tell the cause. 

I came unwillingly at Jove’s command, 

For who, of choice, would traverse the wide waste 
Of the salt ocean, with no city near, 

Where men adore the gods with solemn rites 
And chosen hecatombs. No god has power 
To elude or to resist the purposes 
Of aegis-bearing Jove. With thee abides, 

He bids me say, the most unhappy man 
Of all who round the city of Priam waged 
The battle through nine years, and, in the tenth, 
Laying it waste, departed for their homes. 

But, in their voyage, they provoked the wrath 
Of Pallas, who called up the furious winds 
And angry waves against them. By his side 
Sank all his gallant comrades in the deep. 


FIFTH BOOK OF HOMER’S <uDYSSEY. 325 


Him did the winds and waves drive hither. Him 
Jove bids thee send away with speed, for here 
He must not perish, far from all he loves. 

So is it preordained that he behold 

His friends again, and stand once more within 

His high-roofed palace, on his native soil.” 

He spoke ; Calypso, glorious goddess, heard, 

And shuddered, and with winged words replied : 

“Ye are unjust, ye gods, and, envious far 
Beyond all other beings, cannot bear 
That ever goddess openly should make 
A mortal man her consort. Thus it was 
When once Aurora, rosy-fingered, took 
Orion for her husband ; ye were stung, 

Amid your blissful lives, with envious hate, 

Till chaste Diana, of the golden throne, 

Smote him with silent arrows from her bow, 

And slew him in Ortygia. Thus, again, 

When bright-haired Ceres, swayed by her own heert 
In fields which bore three yearly harvests, met 
Iasion as a lover, this was known 
Ere long to Jupiter, who flung from high 
A flaming thunderbolt, and laid him dead. 

And now ye envy me, that with me dwells 
A mortal man. I saved him, as he clung, 

Alone, upon his floating keel, for Jove 
Had cloven, with a bolt of fire, from heaven, 

His galley in the midst of the black sea, 

And all his gallant comrades perished there. 

Him kindly I received ; I cherished him, 

And promised him a life that ne’er should know 
Decay or death. But, since no god has power 
To elude or to withstand the purposes 
Of segis-bearing Jove, let him depart, 

If so the sovereign moves him and commands, 

Over the barren deep. I send him not ; 

For neither ship arrayed with oars have I, 

Nor seamen, o’er the boundless waste of waves 
28 


326 


LATEE POEMS. 


To bear him hence. My counsel I will give, 

And nothing will I hide that he should know 
To place him safely on his native shore.” 

The herald Argos-queller answered her : 

“ Dismiss him thus, and bear in mind the wrath 
Of Jove, lest it be kindled against thee.” 

Thus having said, the mighty Argicide 
Departed, and the nymph, who now had heard 
The doom of Jove, sought the great-hearted man, 
Ulysses. Him she found beside the deep, 

Seated alone, with eyes from which the tears 
Were never dried, for now no more the nymph 
Delighted him ; he wasted his sweet life 
In yearning for his home. Night after night 
He slept constrained within the hollow cave, 

The unwilling by the fond, and, day by day, 

He sat upon the rocks that edged the shore, 

And in continual weeping and in sighs 
And vain repinings, wore the hours away, 

Gazing through tears upon the barren deep. 

The glorious goddess stood by him and spoke : 

“Unhappy ! sit no longer sorrowing here, 

Nor waste life thus. Lo ! I most willingly 
Dismiss thee hence. Rise, hew down trees, and bind 
Their trunks, with brazen clamps, into a raft, 

And fasten planks above, a lofty floor, 

That it may bear thee o’er the dark-blue deep. 

Bread will I put on board, water, and wine, 

Red wine, that cheers the heart, and wrap thee well 
In garments, and send after thee the wind, 

That safely thou attain thy native shore ; 

If so the gods permit thee, who abide 
In the broad heaven above, and better know 
By far than I, and far more wisely judge.” 

Ulysses, the great sufferer, as she spoke, 
Shuddered, and thus with wingbd words replied 
“ Some other purpose than to send me home 
Is in thy heart, oh goddess, bidding me 


FIFTH BOOK OF HOMEE’s ODYSSEY. 327 


To cross this frightful sea upon a raft, 

This perilous sea, where never even ships 
Pass with their rapid keels, though Jove bestow 
The wind that glads the seaman. Nay, I climb 
No raft, against thy wish, unless thou swear 
The great oath of the gods, that thou, in this, 

Dost meditate no other harm to me.” 

He spake ; Calypso, glorious goddess, smiled, 

And smoothed his forehead with her hand, and said : 

“ Perverse ! and slow to see where guile is not ! 
How could thy heart permit thee thus to speak ? 
Now bear me witness, Earth, and ye broad Heavens 
Above us, and ye waters of the Styx 
That flow beneath us, mightiest oath of all, 

And most revered by all the blessed gods, 

That I design no other harm to thee ; 

But that I plan for thee and counsel thee 
What I would do were I in need like thine. 

I bear a juster mind ; my bosom holds 
A pitying heart, and not a heart of steel.” 

Thus having said, the glorious goddess moved 
Away with hasty steps, and where she trod 
He followed, till they reached the vaulted cave, 

The goddess and the hero. There he took 

The seat whence Hermes had just risen. The nymph 

Brought forth whatever mortals eat and drink 

To set before him. She, right opposite 

To that of great Ulysses, took her seat. 

Ambrosia there her maidens laid, and there 
Poured nectar. Both put forth their hands, md 
took 

The ready viands, till at length the calls 
Of hunger and of thirst were satisfied ; 

Calypso, glorious goddess, then began : 

“ Son of Laertes, man of many wiles, 

High-born Ulysses ! Thus wilt thou depart 
Home to thy native country ? Then farewell ; 

But, couldst thou know the sufferings Fate ordains 


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For thee ere yet thou landest on its shore, 

Ihou wouldst remain to keep this home with me, 

And be immortal, strong as is thy wish 
To see thy wife — a wish that, day by day, 

Possesses thee. I cannot deem myself 
In form or face less beautiful than she ; 

For never with immortals can the race 
Of mortal dames in form or face compare.” 

Ulysses, the sagacious, answered her : 

“ Bear with me, gracious goddess ; well I know 
All thou couldst say. The sage Penelope 
In feature and in stature comes not nigh 
To thee ; for she is mortal, deathless thou 
And ever young ; yet, day by day, I long 
To be at home once more, and pine to see 
The hour of my return. Even though some god 
Smite me on the black ocean, I shall bear 
The stroke, for in my bosom dwells a mind 
Patient of suffering ; much have I endured, 

And much survived, in tempests on the deep, 

And in the battle ; let this happen too.” 

He spoke ; the sun went down ; the night came on, 
And now the twain withdrew to a recess 
Deep in the vaulted cave, where, side by side, 

They took their rest. But when the child of dawn, 
Aurora, rosy-fingered, looked abroad, 

Ulysses put his vest and mantle on ; 

The nymph too, in a robe of silver white, 

Ample, and delicate, and beautiful, 

Arrayed herself, and round about her loins 
Wound a fair golden girdle, drew a veil 
Over her head, and planned to send away 
Magnanimous Ulysses. She bestowed 
A heavy axe, of steel, and double-edged, 

Well fitted to the hand, the handle wrought 
Of olive wood, firm set, and beautiful. 

A polished adze she gave him next, and led 
The way to a far corner of the isle, 


FIFTH BOOK OF HOMER’S ODYSSEY. 329 

Where lofty trees, alders and poplars, stood, 

And firs that reached the clouds, sapless and dry 
Long since, and fitter thus to ride the waves. 

Then, having shown where grew the tallest trees, 
Calypso, glorious goddess, sought her home. 

Trees then he felled, and soon the task was done. 
Twenty in all he brought to earth, and squared 
Their trunks with the sharp steel, and carefully 
He smoothed their sides, and wrought them by a lines. 
Calypso, gracious goddess, having brought 
Wimbles, he bored the beams, and, fitting them 
Together, made them fast with nails and clamps. 

As when some builder, skilful in his art, 

Frames, for a ship of burden, the broad keel, 

Such ample breadth Ulysses gave the raft. 

Upon the massy beams he reared a deck, 

And floored it with long planks from end to end. 

On this a mast he raised, and to the mast 
Fitted a yard ; he shaped a rudder next, 

To guide the raft along her course, and round 
With woven work of willow-boughs he fenced 
Her sides against the dashings of the sea. 

Calypso, gracious goddess, brought him store 
Of canvas, which he fitly shaped to sails, 

And, rigging her with cords, and ropes, and stays, 
Heaved her with levers into the great deep. 

’Twas the fourth day ; his labors now were done, 
And, on the fifth, the goddess from her isle 
Dismissed him, newly from tl e bath, arrayed 
In garments given by her, that shed perfumes. 

A skin of dark-red wine she put on board, 

A larger one of water, and for food 
A basket, stored with viands such as please 
The appetite. A friendly wind and soft 
She sent before. The great Ulysses spread 
His canvas joyfully, to catch the breeze, 

And sat and guided with nice care the helm. 

Gazing with fixed eye on the Pleiades, 


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LATER POEMS. 


Bootes setting late, and the Great Bear, 

By others called the Wain, which, wheeling round, 
Looks ever toward Orion, and alone 
Dips not into the waters of the deep. 

For so Calypso, glorious goddess, bade 
That, on his ocean journey, he should keep 
That constellation ever on his left. 

Now seventeen days were in the voyage past, 

And on the eighteenth shadowy heights appeared, 
The nearest point of the Pheacian land, 

Lying on the dark ocean like a shield. 

But mighty Neptune, coming from among 
The Ethiopians, saw him. Far away 
He saw, from mountain-heights of Solyma, 

The voyager, and burned with fiercer wrath, 

And shook his head, and said within himself : 

“ Strange ! now I see the gods have new designs 
For this Ulysses, formed while I was yet 
In Ethiopia. He draws near the land 
Of the Pheacians, where it is decreed 
He shall o’erpass the boundary of his woes , 

But first, I think, he will have much to bear.” 

He spoke, and round about him called the clouds 
And roused the ocean, wielding in his hand 
The trident, summoned all the hurricanes 
Of all the winds, and covered earth and sky 
At once with mists, while from above, the night 
Fell suddenly. The east wind and the south 
Rushed forth at once, with the strong-blowing west, 
And the clear north rolled up his mighty waves. 
Ulysses trembled in his knees and heart. 

And thus to his great soul, lamenting, said : 

“ What will become of me ? unhappy man ! 

I fear that all the goddess said was true, 

Foretelling what disasters should o’ertake 
My voyage, ere I reach my native land. 

Now arc her words fulfilled. How Jupiter 
Wraps the great heaven in clouds and stir3 the deep 


FIFTH BOOK OF HOMEe’s ODYSSEY. 331 


To tumult ! Wilder grow the hurricanes 
Of all the winds, and now my fate is sure. 

Thrice happy, four times happy they, who fell 
On Troy’s wide field, warring for Atreus’ sons: 

Oh, had I met my fate and perished there, 

That very day on which the Trojan host, 

Around the dead Achilles, hurled at me 
Their brazen javelins ; I had then received 
Due burial and great glory with the Greeks ; 

Now must I die a miserable death.” 

As thus he spoke, upon him, from on high, 

A huge and frightful billow broke ; it whirled 
The raft around, and far from it he fell. 

His hands let go the rudder ; a fierce rush 
Of all the winds together snapped in twain 
The mast ; far off the yard and canvas flew 
Into the deep ; the billow held him long 
Beneath the waters, and he strove in vain 
Quickly to rise to air from that huge swell 
Of ocean, for the garments weighed him down 
Which fair Calypso gave him. But, at length, 
Emerging, he rejected from his throat 
The bitter brine that down his forehead streamed. 
Even then, though hopeless with dismay, his thought 
Was on the raft, and, struggling through the waves, 
He seized it, sprang on board, and seated there 
Escaped the threatened death. Still to and fro 
The rolling billows drove it. As the wind 
In autumn sweeps the thistles o’er the field, 

Clinging together, so the blasts of heaven 
Hither and thither drove it o’er the sea. 

And now the south wind flung it to the north 
To buffet ; now the east wind to the west. 

Ino Leucotbea saw him clinging there, 

The delicate-footed child of Cadmus, once 
A mortal, speaking with a mortal voice; 

Though now within the ocean-gulfs she shares 
The honors of the gods. With pity she 


332 


LATER POEMS. 


Beheld Ulysses struggling thus distressed, 

And, rising from the abyss below, in form 
A cormorant, the sea-nymph took her perch 
On the well-banded raft, and thus she said : 

“ Ah, luckless man, how hast thou angered thus 
Earth-shaking Neptune, that he visits thee 
With these disasters ? Yet he cannot take, 
Although he seek it earnestly, thy life. 

Now do my bidding, for thou seemest wise. 

Laying aside thy garments, let the raft 

Drift with the winds, while thou, by strength of arm, 

Makest thy way in swimming to the land 

Of the Pheacians, where thy safety lies. 

Keceive this veil and bind its heavenly woof 
Beneath thy breast, and have no further fear 
Of hardship or of danger. But, as soon 
As thou shalt touch the island, take it off, 

And turn away thy face, and fling it far 
From where thou standest, into the black deep.” 

The goddess gave the veil as thus she spoke, 

And to the tossing deep went down, in form 
A cormorant ; the black wave covered her. 

But still Ulysses, mighty sufferer, 

Pondered, and thus to his great soul he said : 

“ Ah me ! perhaps some god is planning here 
Some other fraud against me, bidding me 
Forsake my raft. I will not yet obey, 

For still far off I see the land in which 
’Tis said my refuge lies. This will I do, 

For this seems wisest. While the fastenings last 
That hold these timbers, I will keep my place 
And bide the tempest here. But when the waves 
Shall dash my raft in pieces, I will swim, 

For nothing better will remain to do.” 

As he revolved this purpose in his mind, 
Earth-shaking Neptune sent a mighty wave, 

Horrid, and huge, and high, and where he sat 
t smote him. As a violent wind uplifts 


FIFTH BOOK OF HOMEk’s ODYSSEY. 333 


The dry chaff heaped upon a threshing-floor, 

And sends it scattered through the air abroad, 

So did that wave fling loose the ponderous beams. 

To one of these, Ulysses, clinging fast, 

Bestrode it, like a horseman on his steed ; 

And now he took the garments off, bestowed 
By fair Calypso, binding round bis breast 
The veil, and forward plunged into the deep, 

With palms outspread, prepared to swim. Meanwhile, 
Neptune beheld him, Neptune, mighty king, 

And shook hi3 head, and said within himself: 

“ Go thus, and, laden with mischances, roam 
The waters, till thou come among the race 
Cherished bv Jupiter but well I deem 
Thou wilt not find thy share of suffering light.” 

Thus having spoke, he urged his coursers on, 

With their fair-flowing manes, until he came 
To ^Egae, where his glorious palace stands. 

But Fallas, child of Jove, had other thoughts. 

She stayed the course of every wind beside, 

And bade them rest, and lulled them into sleep, 

But summoned the swift north to break the waves, 
That so Ulysses, the high-born, escaped 
From death and from the fates, might be the guest 
Of the Pheacians, men who love the sea. 

Two days and nights, among the mighty waves 
He floated, oft his heart foreboding death, 

But when the bright-haired Eos had fulfilled 
The third day’s course, and all the winds were laid, 
And calm w'as on the watery waste, he saw 
That land was near, as, lifted on the crest 
Of a huge swell, he looked with sharpened sight ; 

And as a father’s life preserved makes glad 
His children’s hearts, when long-time he has lain 
Sick, wrung with pain, and wasting by the power 
Of some malignant genius, till, at length, 

The gracious gods bestow a welcome cure ; 

So welcome to Ulysses was the sight 


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Of woods and fields. By swimming on he thought 
To climb and tread the shore, but when he drew 
So near that one who shouted could be heard 
From land, the sound of ocean on the rocks 
Came to his ear, for there huge breakers roared 
And spouted fearfully, and all around 
Was covered with the sea-foam. Haven here 
Was none for ships, nor sheltering creek, but shores 
Beetling from high, and crags and walls of rock. 
Ulysses trembled both in knees and heart, 

And thus, to his great soul, lamenting, said : 

“Now woe is me ! as soon as Jove has shown 
What I had little hoped to see, the land, 

And I through all these waves have ploughed my way, 
I find no issue from the hoary deep. 

For sharp rocks border it, and all around 
Roar the wild surges ; slippery cliffs arise 
Close to deep gulfs, and footing there is none. 

Where I might plant my steps and thus escape. 

All effort now were fruitless to resist 
The mighty billow hurrying me away 
To dash me on the pointed rocks. If yet 
I strive, by swimming further, to descry 
Some sloping shore or harbor of the isle, 

I fear the tempest, lest it hurl me back, 

Heavily groaning, to the fishy deep. 

Or huge sea-monster, from the multitude 
Which sovereign Amphitrite feeds, be sent 
Against me by some god, for well I know 
The power who shakes the shores is wroth with me.” 

While he revolved these doubts within his mind, 

A huge wave hurled him toward the rugged coast. 
Then had his limbs been flayed, and all his bones 
Broken at once, had not the blue-eyed maid, 

Minerva, prompted him. Borne toward the rock, 

He clutched it instantly, with both his hands, 

And panting clung’ till that huge wave rolled by, 

And so escaped its fury. Back it came, 


FIFTH BOOK OF HOMEK’s ODYSSEY. 335 


And smote him once again, and flung him far 
Seaward. As to the claws of polypus, 

Plucked from its bed, the pebbles thickly cling, 

So flakes of skin, from off his powerful hands, 

Were left upon the rock. The mighty surge 
O’erwhelmed him ; he had perished ere his time, 
Hapless Ulysses, but the blue-eyed maid, 

Pallas, informed his mind with forecast. Straight 
Emerging from the wave that shoreward rolled, 

He swam along the coast and eyed it well, 

In hope of sloping beach or sheltered creek. 

But when, in swimming, he had reached the mouth 
Of a soft-flowing river, here appeared 
The spot he wished for, smooth, without a rock, 
And here was shelter from the wind. He felt 
The current’s flow, and thus devoutly prayed : 

“ Hear me, oh sovereign power, whoe’er thou art ! 
To thee, the long-desired, I come. I seek 
Escape from Neptune’s threatenings on the sea. 

The deathless gods respect the prayer of hitu 
Who looks to them for help, a fugitive, 

As I am now, when to thy stream I come, 

And to thy knees, from many a hardship past. 

Oh thou that here art ruler, I declare 
Myself thy suppliant ; be thou merciful.” 

He spoke ; the river stayed his current, checked 
The billows, smoothed them to a calm, and gave 
The swimmer a safe landing at his mouth. 

Then dropped his knees and sinewy arms, at once 
Unstrung, for faint with struggling was his heart. 
His body was all swoln ; the brine gushed forth 
From mouth and nostrils ; all unnerved he lay, 
Breathless and speechless ; utter weariness 
O’ermastered him. But when he breathed again, 
And his flown senses had returned, he loosed 
The veil that Ino gave him from his breast, 

And to the salt flood cast it. A great wave 
Bore it far down the stream ; the goddess there 


336 


LATER POEMS. 


In her own hands received it. He, meanwhile, 
Withdrawing from the brink, lay down among 
The reeds, and kissed the harvest-bearing earth, 

And thus to his great soul, lamenting, said : 

“ Ah me ! what must I suffer more ! what yet 
Will happen to me ? If, by the river’s side, 

I pass the unfriendly watches of the night, 

The cruel cold and dews that steep the bank 
May, in this weakness, end me utterly, 

For chilly blows the river-air at dawn. 

But should I climb this hill, to sleep within 
The shadowy wood, among thick shrubs, if cold 
And weariness allow me, then I fear, 

That, while the pleasant slumbers o’er me steal, 

I may become the prey of savage beasts.” 

Yet, as he longer pondered, this seemed best. 

He rose and sought the wood, and found it near 
The water, on a height, o’erlooking far 
The region round. Between two shrubs, tha 
sprung 

Both from one spot, he entered, — olive-trees, 

One wild, one fruitful. The damp-blowing wind 
Ne’er pierced their covert ; never blazing sun 
Darted his beams within, nor pelting shower 
Beat through, so closely intertwined they grew. 

Here entering, Ulysses heaped a bed 
Of leaves with his own hands ; he made it broad 
And high, for thick the leaves had fallen around. 
Two men and three, in that abundant store, 

Might bide the winter-storm, though keen the cold. 
Ulysses, the great sufferer, on his couch 
Looked and rejoiced, and placed himself within, 

And heaped the leaves high o’er him and around. 

As one who, dwelling in the distant fields, 

Without a neighbor near him, hides a brand 
In the dark asbes, keeping carefully 
The seeds of fire alive, lest he, perforce, 

To light his hearth must bring them from afar 


THE LITTLE PEOPLE OF THE SNOW. 337 


So did Ulysses, in that pile of leaves, 

Bury himself, while Pallas o’er his eyes 

Poured sleep and closed his lids, that he might take, 

After his painful toils, the fitting rest. 


THE LITTLE PEOPLE OF THE SNOW. 

Alice . — One of your old world stories, Uncle John, 
Such as you tell us by the winter fire, 

Till we all wonder it has grown so late. 

Uncle John . — The story of the witch that ground to 
death 

Two children in her mill, or will you have 
The tale of Goody Cutpurse ? 

Alice . — Nay now, nay; 

Those stories are too childish, Uncle John, 

Too childish even for little Willy here, 

And I am older, two good years, than he ; 

No, let us have a tale of elves that ride, 

By night, with jingling reins, or gnomes of the mine, 
Or water-fairies, such as you know how 
To spin, till Willy’s eyes forget to wink, 

And good Aunt Mary, busy as she is, 

Lays down her knitting. 

Uncle John . — Listen to me, then. 

’Twas in the olden time, long, long ago, 

And long before the great oak at our door 
Was yet an acorn, on a mountain’s side 
Lived, with his wife, a cottager. They dwelt. 

Beside a glen and near a dashing brook, 

A pleasant spot in spring, where first the wren 
Was heard to chatter, and, among the grass, 

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338 


LATER POEMS. 


Flowers opened earliest ; but, when winter came, 

That little brook was fringed with other flowers, — 
White flowers, with crystal leaf and stem, that grew 
In clear November nights. And, later still, 

That mountain-glen was filled with drifted snows 
From side to side, that one might walk across. 

While, many a fathom deep, below, the brook 
Sang to itself, and leaped and trotted on 
Unfrozen, o’er its pebbles, toward the vale. 

Alice . — A mountain-side, you said ; the Alps, per 
haps, 

Or our own Alleghanies. 

Uncle John . — Not so fast, 

My young geographer, for then the Alps, 

With their broad pastures, haply were untrod 
Of herdsman’s foot, and never human voice 
Had. sounded in the woods that overhang 
Our Alleghany’s streams. I think it was 
Upon the slopes of the great Caucasus, 

Or where the rivulets of Ararat 
Seek the Armenian vales. That mountain rose 
So high, that, on its top, the winter-snow 
Was never melted, and the cottagers 
Among the summer-blossoms, far below, 

Saw its white peaks in August from their door. 

One little maiden, in that cottage home, 

Dwelt with her parents, light of heart and limb, 
Bright, restless, thoughtless, flitting here and there, 
Like sunshine on the uneasy ocean-waves, 

And sometimes she forgot what she was bid, 

As Alice does. 

Alice . — Or Willy, quite as oft. 

Uncle John . — But you are older, Alice, two good 
years, 

And should be wiser. Eva was the name 
Of this young maiden, now twelve summers old. 

Now you must know that, in those early time3, 
When autumn days grew pale, there came a troop 


THE LITTLE PEOPLE OF THE SNOW. 339 


Of childlike forms from that cold mountain-top ; 

With trailing garments through the air they came, 

Or walked the ground with girded loin3, and threw 
Spangles of silvery frost upon the grass, 

And edged the brook with glistening parapets, 

And built it crystal bridges, touched the pool, 

Aud turned its face to glass, or, rising thence, 

They shook, from their full laps, the soft, light snow 
And buried the great earth, as autumn winds 
Bury the forest-floor in heaps of leaves. 

A beautiful race were they, with baby brows, 

And fair, bright locks, and voices like the sound 
Of steps on the crisp snow, in which they talked 
With man, as friend with friend. A merry sight 
It was, when, crowding round the traveller, 

They smote him with their heaviest snow-flakes, flung 
Needles of frost in handfuls at his cheeks, 

And, of the light wreaths of his smoking breath, 
Wove a white fringe for his brown beard, and laughod 
Their slender laugh to see him wink and grin 
And make grim faces as he floundered on. 

But, when the spring came on, what terror reignod 
Among these Little People of the Snow ! 

To them the sun’s warm beams were shafts of fire, 
And the soft south-wind was the wind of death. 

Away they flew, all with a pretty scowl 
Upon their childish faces, to the north, 

Or scampered upward to the mountain’s top, 

And there defied their enemy, the Spring ; 

Skipping and dancing on the frozen peaks, 

And moulding little snow-balls in their palms, 

And rolling them, to crush her flowers below, 

Down the steep snow-fields. 

Alice . — That, too, must have been 

A merry sight to look at. 

Unde John . — You are right, 

But I must speak of graver matters now. 

Midwinter was the time, and Eva stood, 


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LATER POEMS. 


Within the cottage, all prepared to dare 
The outer cold, with ample furry robe 
Close-belted round her waist, and boots of fur, 

And a broad kerchief, which her mother’s hand 
Had closely drawn about her ruddy cheek. 

“ Now, stay not long abroad,” said the good dame, 
“For sharp is the outer air, and, mark me well, 

Go not upon the snow beyond the spot 

Where the great linden bounds the neighboring field.” 

The little maiden promised, and went forth, 

And climbed the rounded snow-swells firm with frost 
Beneath her feet, and slid, with balancing arms, 

Into the hollows. Once, as up a drift 
She slowly rose, before her, in the way, 

She saw a little creature, lily-cheeked, 

With flowing flaxen locks, and faint blue eyes, 

That gleamed like ice, and robe that only seemed 
Of a more shadowy whiteness than her cheek. 

On a smooth bank she sat. 

Alice.— She must have been 
One of your Little People of the Snow. 

Uncle John . — She was so, and, as Eva now drew 
near, 

The tiny creature bounded from her seat ; 

“ And come,” she said, “my pretty friend; to-day 
We will be playmates. I have watched thee long, 
And seen how well thou lov’st to walk these drifts, 
And scoop their fair sides into little cells, 

And carve them with quaint figures, huge-limbed men. 
Lions, and griffins. W e will have, to-day, 

A merry ramble over these bright fields, 

And thou shalt see what thou hast never seen.” 

On went the pair, until they reached the bound 
Where the great linden stood, set deep in snow, 

Up to the lower branches. “ Here we stop,” 

Said Eva, “ for my mother has my word 
That I will go no further than this tree.” 

Then the snow-maiden laughed : “ And what is this ? 


THE LITTLE PEOPLE OF THE SNOW. 341 


This fear of the pure snow, the innocent snow, 

That never harmed aught living? Thou mayst roam 
For leagues beyond this garden, and return 
In safety ; here the grim wolf never prowls, 

And here the eagle of our mountain-crags 
Preys not in winter. I will show the way, 

And bring thee safely home. Thy mother, sure, 
Counselled thee thus because thou hadst no guide.” 

By such smooth words was Eva won to break 
Her promise, and went on with her new friend, 

Over the glistening snow and down a bank 
Where a wJiite shelf, wrought by the eddying wind. 
Like to a billow’s crest in the great 6ea, 

Curtained an opening. “ Look, we enter here.” 

And straight, beneath the fair o’erhanging fold, 
Entered the little pair that hill of snow, 

Walking along a passage with white walls, 

And a white vault above where snow-stars shod 
A wintry twilight. Eva moved in awe, 

And held her peace, but the snow-maiden smiled, 
And talked and tripped along, as, down the way, 
Deeper they went into that mountainous drift. 

And now the white walls widened, and the vault 
Swelled upward, like some vast cathedral dome, 

Such as the Florentine, who bore the name 
Of heaven’s most potent angel, reared, long since, 

Or the unknown builder of that wondrous fane, 

The glory of Burgos. Here a garden lay, 

In which the Little People of the Snow 
Were wont to take their pastime when their tasks 
Upon the mountain’s side and in the clouds 
Were ended. Here they taught the silent frost 
To mock, in stem and spray, and leaf and flow er, 

The growths of summer. Here the palm upreared 
Its white columnar trunk and spotless sheaf 
Of plume-like leaves ; here cedars, huge as those 
Of Lebanon, stretched far their level boughs, * 

Tet pale and sbadowless ; the sturdy oak 


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LATEE POEMS. 


Stood, with its huge gnarled roots of seeming strength, 
Fast anchored in the glistening bank ; light sprays 
Of myrtle, roses in their bud and bloom, 

Drooped by the winding walks ; yet all seemed 
wrought 

Of stainless alabaster ; up the trees 
Ran the lithe jessamine, with stalk and leaf 
Colorless as her flowers. “ Go softly on,” 

Said the snow-maiden ; “touch not, with thy hand, 
The frail creation round thee, and beware 
To sweep it with thy skirts. Now look above. 

How sumptuously these bowers are lighted up 
With shifting gleams that softly come and go ! 

These are the northern lights, such as thou seest 
In the midwinter nights, cold, wandering flames, 

That float, with our processions, through the air; 

And here, within our winter palaces, 

Mimic the glorious daybreak.” Then she told 
How, when the wind, in the long winter nights, 

Swept the light snows into the hollow dell, 

She and her comrades guided to its place 

Each wandering flake, and piled them quaintly up, 

In shapely colonnade and glistening arch, 

With shadowy aisles between, or bade them grow 
Beneath their little hands, to bowery walks 
In gardens such as these, and, o’er them all, 

Built the broad roof. “ But thou hast yet to see 
A fairer sight,” she said, and led the way 
To where a window of pellucid ice 
Stood in the wall of snow, beside their path. 

“ Look, but thou mayst not enter.” Eva looked, 

And lo ! a glorious hall, from whose high vault 
Stripes of soft light, ruddy, and delicate green, 

And tender blue, flowed downward to the floor 
And far around, as if the aerial hosts, 

That march on high by night, with beatnv spears, 
And stfeaming banners, to that place had brought 
Their radiant flags to grace a festival. 


THE LITTLE PEOPLE OF THE SNOW. 343 

And in that hall a joyous multitude 
Of these by whom its glistening walls were reared, 
Whirled in a merry dance to silvery sounds, 

That rang from cymbals of transparent ice, 

And ice-cups, quivering to the skilful touch 
Of little fingers. Round and round they flew, 

As when, in spring, about a chimney-top, 

A cloud of twittering swallows, just returned, 

Wheel round and round, and turn and wheel again. 
Unwinding their swift track. So rapidly 
Flowed the meandering stream of that fair dance, 
Beneath that dome of light. Bright eyes that looked 
From under lily-brows, and gauzy scarfs 
Sparkling like snow-wreaths in the early sun, 

Shot by the window in their mazy whirl. 

And there stood Eva, wondering at the sight 
Of those bright revellers and that graceful sweep 
Of motion as they passed her ; — long she gazed, 

And listened long to the sweet sounds that thrilled 
The frosty air, till now the encroaching cold 
Recalled her to herself. “ Too long, too long 
I linger here,” she said, and then she sprang 
Into the path, and with a hurried step 
Followed it upward. Ever by her side 
Her little guide kept pace. As on they went 
Eva bemoaned her fault : “ What mu3t they think — 
The dear ones in the cottage, while so long, 

Hour after hour, I stay without ? I know 
That they will seek me far and near, and weep 
To find me not. How could I, wickedly, 

Neglect the charge they gave me ? ” As she spoke, 
The hot tears started to her eyes ; she knelt 
In the mid-path. “ Father ! forgive this sin ; 

Forgive myself I cannot” — thus she prayed, 

And rose and hastened onward. When, at last, 

They reached the outer air, the clear north breathed 
A bitter cold, from which she shrank with dread, 

But the snow-maiden bounded as she felt 


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LATEE POEMS. 


The cutting blast, and uttered shouts of joy 

And skipped, wDh boundless glee, from drift to drift, 

And danced rounu Eva, as she labored up 

The mounds of snow. “ Ah me ! I feel my eyes 

Grow heavy,” Eva said ; “ they swim with sleep ; 

I cannot walk for utter weariness, 

And I must rest a moment on this bank, 

But let it not be long.” As thus she spoke, 

In hall-formed words, she sank on the smooth snow, 
With closing lids. Her guide composed the robe 
About her limbs, and said : “A pleasant spot 
Is this to slumber in ; on such a couch 
Oft have I slept away the winter night, 

And had the sweetest dreams.” So Eva slept, 

But slept in death ; for when the power of frost 
Locks up the motions of the living frame, 

The victim passes to the realm of Death 
Through the dim porch of Sleep. The little guide, 
Watching beside her, saw the hues of life 
Fade from the fair smooth brow and rounded cheek, 
As fades the crimson from a morning cloud, 

Till they were white as marble, and the breath 
Had ceased to come and go, yet knew she not 
At first that this was death. But when she marked 
How deep the paleness was, how motionless 
That once lithe form, a fear came over her. 

She strove to wake the sleeper, plucked her robe, 

And shouted in her ear, but all in vain ; 

The life had passed away from those young limbs. 
Then the snow-maiden raised a wailing cry, 

Such as the dweller in some lonely wild, 

Sleepless through all the long December night, 

Hears when the mournful East begins to blow. 

But suddenly was heard the sound of steps, 

Grating on the crisp snow ; the cottagers 

Were seeking Eva ; from afar they saw 

The twain, and hurried toward them. As they came, 

With gentle chidings ready on their lips, 


THE LITTLE PEOPLE OF THE SNOW. 


345 


And marked that deathlike sleep, and heard the tale 
Of the snow-maiden, mortal anguish fell 
Upon their hearts, and bitter words of grief 
And blame were uttered : “ Cruel, cruel one, 

To tempt our daughter thus, and cruel we, 

Who suffered her to wander forth alone 

In this fierce cold ! ” They lifted the dear child, 

And bore her home and chafed her tender limbs, 

And strove, by all the simple arts they knew, 

To make the chilled blood move, and win the breath 
Back to her bosom ; fruitlessly they strove ; 

The little maid was dead. In blank despair 
They stood, and gazed at her who never more 
Should look on them. “ Why die we not with her ? " 
They said ; “ without her, life is bitterness.” 

Now came the funeral-day ; the simple folk 
Of all that pastoral region gathered round 
To share the sorrow of the cottagers. 

They carved a way into the mound of snow 
To the glen’s side, and dug a little grave 
In the smooth slope, and, following the bier, 

In long procession from the silent door, 

Chanted a sad and solemn melody. 

“ Lay her away to rest within the ground. 

Yea, lay her down whose pure and innocent life 
Was spotless as these snows ; for she was reared 
In love, and passed in love life’s pleasant spring, 

And all that now our tenderest love can do 
Is to give burial to her lifeless limbs.” 

They paused. A thousand slender voices round, 
Like echoes softly flung from rock and hill, 

Took up the strain, and all the hollow air 
Seemed mourning for the dead ; for, on that day, 

The Little People of the Snow had come, 

From mountain-peak, and cloud, and icy hall, 

To Eva’s burial. As the murmur died 
The funeral-train renewed the solemn chant : 

“ Thou, Lord, hast taken her to be with Eve, 


846 


LATEE POEMS. 


Whose gentle name was given her. Even so, 

For so Thy wisdom saw that it was best 
For her and us. We bring our bleeding hearts, 

And ask the touch of healing from Thy hand, 

As, with submissive tears, we render back 
The lovely and beloved to Him who gave.” 

They ceased. Again the plaintive murmur rose. 
From shadowy skirts of low-hung cloud it came, 

And wide white fields, and fir-trees capped with snow 
Shivering to the sad sounds. They sank away 
. To silence in the dim-seen distant woods. 

The little grave was closed ; the funeral-train 
Departed ; winter wore away ; the Spring 
Steeped, with her quickening rains, the violet-tufts, 
By fond hands planted where the maiden slept. 

But, after Eva’s burial, never more 
The Little People of the Snow were seen 
By human eye, nor ever human ear 
Heard from their lips, articulate speech again ; 

For a decree went forth to cut them olf, 

Forever, from communion with mankind. 

The winter-clouds, along the mountain-side, 

Rolled downward toward the vale, but no fair form 
Leaned from their folds, and, in the icy glens, 

And aged woods, under snow-loaded pines, 

Where once they made their haunt, was emptinesa 

But ever, when the wintry days drew near, 

Around that little grave, in the long night, 
Frost-wreaths were laid and tufts of silvery rime 
In shape like blades and blossoms of the field, 

As one would scatter flowers upon a bier. 


THE POET. 


347 


THE POET. 

Thou, who wouldst wear the name 
Of poet ’mid thy brethren of mankind, 

And clothe in words of flame 

Thoughts that shall live within the generd mind ! 
Deem not the framing of a deathless lay 
The pastime of a drowsy summer day. 

But gather all thy powers, 

And wreak them on the verse that thou dost weaver 
And in thy lonely hours, 

At silent morning or at wakeful eve, 

While the warm current tingles through thy veins, 
Set forth the burning words in fluent strains. 

No smooth array of phrase, 

Artfully sought and ordered though it be, 

Which the cold rhymer lays 

Upon his page with languid industry, 

Can wake the listless pulse to livelier speed, 

Or fill with sudden tears the eyes that read. 

The secret wouldst thou know 
To touch the heart or fire the blood at will ? 

Let thine own eyes o’erflow ; 

Let thy lips quiver with the passionate thrill ; 

Seize the great thought, ere yet its power be past, 
And bind, in words, the fleet emotion fast. 

Then, should thy verse appear 

Halting and harsh, and all unaptly wrought, 

Touch, the crude line with fear, 

Save in the moment of impassioned thought ; 


348 


LATER POEMS. 


Then summon back the original glow, and mend 
The strain with rapture that with fire was penned. 

Yet let-no empty gust 

Of passion find an utterance in thy lay, 

A blast that whirls the dust 

Along the howling street and dies away ; 

But feelings of calm power and mighty sweep, 

Like currents journeying through the windless deep. 

Seek’st thou, in living lays, 

To limn the beauty of the earth and sky ? 

Before thine inner gaze 

Let all that beauty in clear vision lie ; 

Look on it with exceeding love, and write 
The words inspired by wonder and delight. 

Of tempests wouldst thou sing, 

Or tell of battles — make thyself a part 
Of the great tumult ; cling 

To the tossed wreck with terror in thy heart ; 
Scale, with the assaulting host, the rampart’s height, 
And strike and struggle in the thickest fight. 

So shalt thou frame a lay 

That haply may endure from age to age, 

And they who read shall say: 

“ What witchery hangs upon this poet’s page ! 
What art is his the written spells to find 
That sway from mood to mood the willing mind 1 ” 


THE PATH. 


349 


THE PATH. 

The path we planned beneath October’s sky, 

Along the hill-side, through the woodland shade, 
Is finished ; thanks to thee, whose kindly eye 
Has watched me, as I plied the busy spade ; 

Else had I wearied, ere this path of ours 
Had pierced the woodland to its inner bowers. 

Yet, ’twas a pleasant toil to trace and beat, 

Among the glowing trees, this winding way, 
While the sweet autumn sunshine, doubly sweet, 
Flushed with the ruddy foliage, round us lay, 

As if some gorgeous cloud of morning stood, 

In glory, mid the arches of the wood. 

A path ! what beauty does a path bestow 
Even on the dreariest wild ! its savage nooks 
Seem homelike where accustomed footsteps go, 

And the grim rock puts on familiar looks. 

The tangled swamp, through which a pathway strays, 
Becomes a garden with strange flowers and sprays. 

See, from the weedy earth a rivulet break 
And purl along the untrodden wilderness ; 

There the shy cuckoo comes his thirst to slake, 
There the shrill jay alights his plumes to dress ; 
And there the stealthy fox, when morn is gray, 

Laps the clear stream and lightly moves away. 

But let a path approach that fountain’s brink, 

And nobler forms of life, behold ! are there : 

Boys kneeling with protruded lips to drink, 

And slender maids that homeward slowly bear 
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350 


LATER POEMS. 


The brimming pail, and busy dames that lay 
Their webs to whiten in the summer ray. 

Then know we that for herd and flock are poured 
Those pleasant streams that o’er the pebbles slip 
Those pure sweet waters sparkle on the board ; 

Those fresh cool waters wet the sick man’s lip ; 
Those clear bright waters from the font are shed, 
In dews of baptism on the infant’s head. 

What different steps the rural footway trace I 
The laborer afield at early day ; 

The schoolboy sauntering with uneven pace ; 

The Sunday worshipper in fresh array ; 

And mourner in the weeds of sorrow drest ; 

And, smiling to himself, the wedding guest. 

There he who cons a speech and he who hums 
His yet unfinished verses, musing walk. 

There, with her little brood, the matron comes, 

To break the spring flower from its juicy stalk ; 
And lovers, loitering, wonder that the moon 
Has risen upon their pleasant stroll so soon. 

Bewildered in vast woods, the traveller feels 
His heavy heart grow lighter, if he meet 
The traces of a path, and straight he kneels, 

And kisses the dear print of human feet, 

And thanks his God, and journeys without fear, 
For now he knows the abodes of men are near. 


Pursue the slenderest path across a lawn : 

Lo ! on the broad highway it issues forth, 

And, blended with the greater track, goes on, 
Over the surface of the mighty earth, 

Climbs hills and crosses vales, and stretches far, 
Through silent forests, toward the evening star — 


THE RETURN OF THE BIRDS. 


851 


And enters cities murmuring with the feet 
Of multitudes, and wanders forth again, 

And joins the climes of frost to climes of heat, 

Binds East to West, and marries main to main, 

Nor stays till at the long-resounding shore 

Of the great deep, where paths are known no more. 

Oh, mighty instinct, that dost thus unite 
Earth’s neighborhoods and tribes with friendly bands, 
What guilt is theirs who, in their greed or spite, 

Undo thy holy work with violent hands ! 

And post their squadrons, nursed in war's grim trade, 
To bar the ways for mutual succor made. 


THE RETURN OF THE BIRDS. 

I hear, from many a little throat, 

A warble interrupted long ; 

I hear the robin’s flute-like note, 

The bluebird’s slenderer song. 

Brown meadows and the russet hill, 

Not yet the haunt of grazing herds, 
And thickets by the glimmering rill, 

Are all alive with birds. 

Oh choir of spring, w hy come so soon ? 

On leafless grove and herbless lawn 
Warm lie the yellow beams of noon ; 

Yet winter is not gone. 

For frost shall sheet the pools again ; 

Again the blustering East shall blow — 
Whirl a white tempest through the glen, 
And load the pines with snow. 


352 


LATEB POEMS. 


Yet, haply, from the region where, 

Waked by an earlier spring than here, 

The blossomed wild-plum scents the air, 

Ye come in haste and fear. 

For there is heard the bugle-blast, 

The booming gun, the jarring drum, 

And on their chargers, spurring fast, 

Armed warriors go and come. 

There mighty hosts have pitched the camp 
In valleys that were yours till then, 

And Earth has shuddered to the tramp 
Of half a million men ! 

In groves where once ye used to sing, 

In orchards where ye had your birth, 

A thousand glittering axes swing 
To smite the trees to earth. 

Ye love the fields by ploughmen trod ; 

But there, when sprouts the beechen spray. 
The soldier only breaks the sod 
To hide the slain away. 

Stay, then, beneath our ruder sky ; 

Heed not the storm-clouds rising black. 

Nor yelling winds that with them fly ; 

Nor let them fright you back, — 

Back to the stifling battle-cloud, 

To burning towns that blot the day, 

And trains of mounting dust that shroud 
The armies on their way. 

Stay, for a tint of green shall creep 
Soon o’er the orchard’s grassy floor. 


U . . . ALL THINGS UNDER HIS FEET.” 353 

And from its bed the crocus peep 
Beside the housewife’s door. 

Here build, and dread no harsher sound, 

To scare you from the sheltering tree, 

Than winds that stir the branches round, 
And murmur of the bee. 

And we will pray that, ere again 

The flowers of autumn bloom and die, 

Our generals and their strong-armed men 
May lay their weapons by. 

Then may ye warble, unafraid, 

Where hands, that wear the fetter now, 

Free as your wings shall ply the spade, 

And guide the peaceful plough. 

Then, as our conquering hosts return, 

What shouts of jubilee shall break 

From placid vale and mountain stern, 

And shore of mighty lake l 

And midland plain and ocean-strand 
Shall thunder : “ Glory to the brave, 

Peace to the torn and bleeding land, 

And freedom to the slave ! ” 

March, 1864. 




« HE HATH PUT ALL THINGS UNDER HIS FEET 

0 North, with all thy vales of green ! 

0 South, with all thy palms ! 

From peopled towns and fields between 
Uplift the voice of psalms ; 


354 


LATER POEMS. 


Raise, ancient East, the anthem high, 
And let the youthful West reply. 

Lo ! in the clouds of heaven appears 
God’s well-beloved Son ; 

He brings a train of brighter years 
His kingdom is begun. 

He comes, a guilty world to bless 
With mercy, truth and righteousness. 

Oh, Father ! haste the promised hour, 
When, at His feet, shall lie 
All rule, authority, and power, 

Beneath the ample sky ; 

When He shall reign from pole to pole, 
The lord of every human soul. 

When all shall heed the words He said 
Amid their daily cares, 

And, by the loving life He led, 

Shall seek to pattern theirs ; 

And He, who conquered Death, shall win 
The nobler conquest over Sin. 


MY AUTUMN WALK. 

On woodlands ruddy with autumn 
The amber sunshine lies ; 

I look on the beauty round me, 

And tears come into my eyes. 

For the wind that sweeps the meadows 
Blows out of the far Southwest, 
Where our gallant men are fighting, 
And the gallant dead are at rest. 


MY AUTUMN WALK. 


355 


The golden-rod is leaning, 

And the purple aster waves 

In a breeze from the land of battles, 
A breath from the land of graves. 

Full fast the leaves are dropping 
Before that wandering breath ; 

As fast, on the field of battle, 

Our brethren fall in death. 

Beautiful over my pathway 
The forest spoils are shed ; 

They are spotting the grassy hillocks 
With purple and gold and red. 

Beautiful is the death-sleep 
Of those who bravely fight 

In their country’s holy quarrel, 

And perish for the Bight. 

But who shall comfort the living, 

The light of whose homes is gone : 

The bride that, early widowed, 

Lives broken-hearted on; 

The matron whose sons are lying 
In graves on a distant shore ; 

The maiden, whose promised husband 
Comes back from the war no more ? 

Hook on the peaceful dwellings 
Whose windows glimmer in sight, 

With croft and garden and orchard, 
That bask in the mellow light ; 

And I know that, when our couriers 
With news of victory come, 


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LATEE POEMS. 


They will bring a bitter message 
Of hopeless grief to some. 

Again I turn to tlie woodlands, 

And shudder as I see 

The mock-grape’s blood-red banner 
Hung out on the cedar-tree ; 

And I think of days of slaughter, 

And the night-sky red with flames, 

On the Chattahoochee’s meadows, 

And the wasted banks of the James. 

Oh, for the fresh spring-season, 

When the groves are in their prime ; 

And far away in the future 
Is the frosty autumn-time ! 

Oh, for that better season, 

When the pride of the foe shall yield, 

And the hosts of God and Freedom 
March back from the well-won field ; 

And the matron shall clasp her first-born 
With tears of joy and pride ; 

And the scarred and war-worn lover 
Shall claim his promised bride ! 

The leaves are swept from the branches ; 
But the living buds are there, 

With folded flower and foliage, 

To sprout in a kinder air. 

October, 1864 . 


dante. 


Z6't 


DANTE. 

Who, mid the grasses of the field 
That spring beneath our careless feet, 

First found the shining stems that yield 
The grains of life-sustaining wheat : 

Who first, upon the furrowed land, 

Strewed the bright grains to sprout, and grow, 

And ripen for the reaper’s hand — 

We know not, and we cannot know. 

But well we know the hand that brought 
And scattered, far as sight can reach, 

The seeds of free and living thought 
On the broad field of modern speech. 

Mid the white hills that round us lie, 

We cherish that Great Sower’s fame, 

And, as we pile the sheaves on high, 

With awe we utter Dante’s name. 

Six centuries, since the poet’s birth, 

Have come and flitted o’er our sphere : 

The richest harvest reaped on earth 
Crowns the last century’s closing year. 

1865. 




LATEB POEMS 


858 


THE HEATH OF LINCOLN 

Oh, slow to smite and swift to spare, 
Gentle and merciful and just ! 

Who, in the fear of God, didst bear 
The sword of power, a nation’s trust l 

In sorrow by thy bier we stand, 

Amid the awe that hushes all, 

And speak the anguish of a land 
That shook with horror at thy fall. 

Thy task is done ; the bond are free : 

We bear thee to an honored grave, 

Whose proudest monument shall be' 

The broken fetters of the slave. 

Pure was thy life ; its bloody close 

Hath placed thee with the sons of light, 

Among the noble host of those 

Who perished in the cause of Right. 

April , , 1865. 


THE HEATH OF SLAVERY, 

0 thou great Wrong, that, through the slow-paced years, 
Hidst hold thy millions fettered, and didst wield 
The scourge that drove the laborer to the field, 

And turn a stony gaze on human tears, 

Thy cruel reign is o’er ; 

Thy bondmen crouch no more 


THE DEATH OF SLAVEEY. 


350 


In terror at the menace of thine eye ; 

For He who marks the bounds of guilty power, 
Long-suffering, hath heard the captive’s cry, 

And touched his shackles at the appointed hour, 
And lo ! they fall, and he whose limbs they galled 
Stands in his native manhood, disenthralled. 

A shout of joy from the redeemed is sent ; 

Ten thousand hamlets swell the hymn of thanks; 
Our rivers roll exulting, and their banks 
Send up hosannas to the firmament ! 

Fields where the bondman’s toil 
No more shall trench the soil, 

Seem now to bask in a serener day ; 

The meadow-birds sing sweeter, and the airs 
Of heaven with more caressing softness play, 
Welcoming man to liberty like theirs. 

A glory clothes the land from sea to sea, 

For the great land and all its coasts are free. 

Within that land wert thou enthroned of late, 

And they by whom the nation’s laws were made, 
And they who filled its judgment-seats obeyed 
Thy mandate, rigid as the will of Fate. 

Fierce men at thy right hand, 

With gesture of command, 

Gave forth the word that none might dare gainsay; 

And grave and reverend ones who loved thee not, 
Shrank from thy presence, and in blank dismay 
Choked down, unuttered, the rebellious thought ; 
While meaner cowards, mingling with thy train, 
Proved, from the book of God, thy right to reign. 

Great as thou wert, and feared from shore to shore, 
The wrath of Heaven o’ertook thee in thy pride ; 
Thou sitt’st a ghastly shadow ; by thy side 
Thy once strong arms hang nerveless evermore. 


860 


LATER POEMS. 


And they who quailed but now 
Before thy lowering brow, 

Devote thy memory to scorn and shame, 

And scoff at the pale, powerless thing thou art. 

And they who ruled in thine imperial name, 

Subdued, and standing sullenly apart, 

Scowl at the hands that overthrew thy reign, 

And shattered at a blow the prisoner’s chain. 

Well was thy doom deserved ; thou didst not spare 
Life’s tenderest ties, but cruelly didst part 
Husband and wife, and from the mother’s heart 
Didst wrest her children, deaf to shriek and prayer ; 
Thy inner lair became 
The haunt of guilty shame; 

Thy lash dropped blood ; the murderer, at thy side, 
Showed his red hands, nor feared the vengeance due. 
Thou didst sew earth with crimes, and, far and wide, 

A harvest of uncounted miseries grew, 

Until the measure of thy sins at last 

Was full, and then the avenging bolt was cast ! 

Go now, accursed of God, and take thy place 
With hateful memories of the elder time, 

With many a wasting plague, and nameless crime, 
And bloody war that thinned the human race ; 

With the Black Death, whose way 
Through wailing cities lay, 

Worship of Moloch, tyrannies that built 
The Pyramids, and cruel creeds that taught 
To avenge a fancied guilt by deeper guilt — 

Death at the stake to those that held them not. 

Lo ! the foul phantoms, silent in the gloom 
Of the flown ages, part to yield thee room. 

I see the better years that hasten by 
Carry thee back into that shadowy past, 


361 


“receive thy sight.” 

Where, in the dusty spaces, void and vast, 

The graves of those whom thou hast murdered lie. 

The slave-pen, through whose door 
Thy victims pass no more, 

Is there, and there shall the grim block remain 
At which the slave was sold ; while at thy feet 
Scourges and engines of restraint and pain 
Moulder and rust by thine eternal seat. 

There, mid the symbols that proclaim thy crimes, 
Dwell thou, a warning to the coming times. 

May , 1866. 


“RECEIVE THY SIGHT.” 

When the blind suppliant in the way, 

By friendly hands to Jesus led, 

Prayed to behold the light of day, 

“ Receive thy sight,” the Saviour said. 

At once he saw the pleasant rays 
That lit the glorious firmament 

And, with firm step and words of praise, 

He followed where the Master went. 

Look down in pity, Lord, we pray, 

On eyes oppressed by moral night, 

And touch the darkened lids and say 

The gracious words, “ Receive thy sight.” 

Then, in clear daylight, shall we see 
Where walked the sinless Son of God ; 

And, aided by new strength from Thee, 
Press onward in the path He trod. 


31 


362 


LATER POEMS. 


A BRIGHTER DAY. 

FROM THE SPANISH. 

Harness the impatient Years, 

0 Time ! and yoke them to the imperial car ; 

For, through a mist of tears, 

The brighter day appears, 

Whose early blushes tinge the hills afar. 

A brighter day for thee, 

0 realm ! whose glorious fields are spread between 
The dark-blue Midland Sea 
And that immensity 

Of Western waters which once hailed thee queen! 
The fiery coursers fling 

Their necks aloft, and snuff the morning wind, 

Till the fleet moments bring 
The expected sign to spring 
Along their path, and leave these glooms behind. 

Yoke them, and yield the reins 
To Spain, and lead her to the lofty seat ; 

But, ere she mount, the chains 
Whose cruel strength constrains 
Her limbs must fall in fragments at her feet. 

A tyrant brood have wound 
About her helpless limbs the steely braid, 

And toward a gulf profound 
They drag her, gagged and bound, 

Down among dead men’s bones, and frost and shade. 


A BRIGHTER DAY. 


363 


0 Spain ! thou wert of yore 
The wonder of the realms ; in prouder years 
Thy haughty forehead wore, 

What it shall wear no more, 

The diadem of both the hemispheres. 

To thee the ancient Deep 
Kevealed his pleasant, undiscovered lands ; 
From mines where jewels sleep, 

Tilled plain and vine-clad steep, 
Earth’s richest spoil was offered to thy hands. 

Yet thou, when land and sea 
Sent thee their tribute with each rolling wave, 
And kingdoms crouched to thee, 

Wert false to Liberty, 

And therefore art thou now a shackled slave. 

Wilt thou not, yet again, 

Put forth the sleeping strength that in thee lies, 
And snap the shameful chain, 

And force that tyrant train 
To flee before the anger in thine eyes ? 

Then shall the harnessed Years 
Sweep onward with thee to that glorious height 
Which even now appears 
Bright through the mist of tears, 

The dwelling-place of Liberty and Light. 

October , 1867 . 



864 


LATEE POEMS. 


AMONG THE TREES. 

Oh ye who love to overhang the springs, 

And stand by running waters, ye whose boughs 
Make beautiful the rocks o’er which they play, 

Who pile with foliage the great hills, and rear 
A paradise upon the lonely plain, 

Trees of the forest, and the open field ! 

Have ye no sense of being ? Does the air, 

The pure air, which I breathe with gladness, pass 
In gushes o’er your delicate lungs, your leaves, 

All unenjoyed ? When on your winter sleep 
The sun shines warm, have ye no dreams of spring ? 
And when the glorious spring-time comes at last, 
Have ye no joy of all your bursting buds, 

And fragrant blooms, and melody of birds 
To which your young leaves shiver? Do ye strive 
And wrestle with the wind, yet know it not ? 

Feel ye no glory in your strength when he, 

The exhausted Blusterer, flies beyond the hills, 

And leaves you stronger yet? Or have ye not 
A sense of loss when he has stripped your leaves, 
Yet tender, and has splintered your fair boughs ? 
Doe3 the loud bolt that smites you from the cloud 
And rends you, fall unfelt ? Do there not run 
Strange shudderings through your fibres when the axe 
Is raised against you, and the shining blade 
Deals blow on blow, until, with all their boughs, 
Your summits waver and ye fall to earth ? 

Know ye no sadness when the hurricane 

Has swept the wood and snapped its sturdy stems 

Asunder, or has wrenched, from out the soil, 

The mightiest with their circles of strong roots, 
And piled the ruin all along his path ? 


AMONG THE TREES. 


365 


Nay, doubt we not that under the rough rind, 

In the green veins of these fair growths of earth, 
There dwells a nature that receives delight 
From all the gentle processes of life, 

And shrinks from loss of being. Dim and faint 
May be the sense of pleasure and of pain, 

As in our dreams ; but, haply, real still. 

Our sorrows touch you not. We watch beside 
The beds of those who languish or who die, 

And minister in sadness, while our hearts 
Offer perpetual prayer for life and ease 
And health to the beloved sufferers. 

But ye, while anxious fear and fainting hope 
Are in our chambers, ye rejoice without. 

The funeral goes forth ; a silent train 

Moves slowly from the desolate home ; our hearts 

Are breaking as we lay away the loved, 

Whom we shall see no more, in their last rest, 
Their little cells within the burial-place. 

Ye have no part in this distress ; for still 
The February sunshine steeps your boughs 
And tints the buds and swells the leaves within ; 
While the song-sparrow, warbling from her perch, 
Tells you that spring is near. The wind of May 
Is sweet with breath of orchards, in whose boughs 
The bees and every insect of the air 
Make a perpetual murmur of delight. 

And by whose flowers the humming-bird hangs poised 
In air, and draws their sweets and darts away. 

The linden, in the fervors of July, 

Hums with a louder concert. When the wind 
Sweeps the broad forest in its summer prime, 

As when some master-hand exulting sweeps 
The keys of some great organ, ye give forth 
The music of the woodland depths, a hymn 
Of gladness and of thanks. The hermit-thrush 
Pipes his sweet note to make your arches ring. 


366 


LATEE POEMS. 


The faithful robin, from the wayside elm, 

Carols all day to cheer his sitting mate, 

And when the autumn comes, the kings of earth, 
In all their majesty, are not arrayed 
As ye are, clothing the broad mountain-side 
And spotting the smooth vales with red and gold. 
While, swaying to the sudden breeze, ye fling 
Your nuts to earth, and the brisk squirrel comes 
To gather them, and barks with childish glee, 
And scampers with them to his hollow oak. 


Thus, as the seasons pass, ye keep alive 
The cheerfulness of Nature, till in time 
The constant misery which wrings the heart 
Kelents, and we rejoice with you again, 

And glory in your beauty ; till once more 
We look with pleasure on your varnished leaves, 
That gayly glance in sunshine, and can hear, 
Delighted, the soft answer which your boughs 
Utter in whispers to the babbling brook. 


Ye have no history. I cannot know 
Who, when the hill-side trees were hewn away, 
Haply two centuries since, bade spare this oak, 
Leaning to shade, with his irregular arms, 

Low-bent and long, the fount that from his roots 
Slips through a bed of cresses toward the bay, 

I know not who, but thank him that he left 
The tree to flourish where the acorn fell. 

And join these later days to that far time 
While yet the Indian hunter drew the bow 
In the dim woods, and the white woodman first 
Opened these fields to sunshine, turned the soil 
And strewed the wheat. An unremembered Past 
Broods, like a presence, ’mid the long gray boughs 
Of this old tree, which has outlived so long 
The flitting generations of mankind. 


AM02TG THE TREES. 


307 


Ye have no history. I ask in vain 
Who planted on the slope this lofty group 
Of ancient pear-trees that with spring-time burst 
Into such breadth of bloom. One bears a scar 
Where the quick lightning scored its trunk, yet still 
It feels the breath of Spring, and every May 
Is white with blossoms. Who it was that laid 
Their infant roots in earth, and tenderly 
Cherished the delicate sprays, I ask in vain, 

Yet bless the unknown hand to which I owe 
This annual festival of bees, these songs 
Of birds within their leafy screen, these shouts 
Of joy from children gathering up the fruit 
Shaken in August from the willing boughs. 

Ye that my hands have planted, or have spared, 
Beside the way, or in the orchard-ground, 

Or in the open meadow, ye whose boughs 
With every summer spread a wider shade, 

Whose herd in coming years shall lie at rest 
Beneath your noontide shelter? who shall pluck 
Your ripened fruit? who grave, as was the wont 
Of simple pastoral ages, on the rind 
Of my smooth beeches some beloved name ? 

Idly I ask ; yet may the eyes that look 
Upon you, in your later, nobler growth, 

Look also on a nobler age than ours ; 

An age when, in the eternal strife between 
Evil and Good, the Power of Good shall win 
A grander mastery ; when kings no more 
Shall summon millions from the plough to learn 
The trade of slaughter, and of populous realms 
Make camps of war; when in our younger land 
The hand of ruffian Violence, that now 
Is insolently raised to smite, shall fall 
Unnerved before the calm rebuke of Law, 

And Fraud, his sly confederate, shrink, in shame, 
Back to his covert, and forego his prey. 


LA.TEB POEMS 


868 


MAY EVENING. 

The breath of Spring-time at this twilight hour 
Comes through the gathering glooms, 

And bears the stolen sweets of many a flower 
Into my silent rooms. 

Where hast thou wandered, gentle gale, to find 
The perfumes thou dost bring ? 

By brooks, that through the wakening meadows wind, 
Or brink of rushy spring ? 

Or woodside, where, in little companies, 

The early wild-flowers rise, 

Or sheltered lawn, where, ’mid encircling trees, 
May’s warmest sunshine lies ? 

Now sleeps the humming-bird, that, in the sun, 
Wandered from bloom to bloom; 

Now, too, the weary bee, his day’s work done, 
Rests in his waxen room. 

Now every hovering insect to his place 
Beneath the leaves hath flown ; 

And, through the long-night hours, the flowery race 
Are left to thee alone. 

O’er the pale blossoms of the sassafras 
And o’er the spice-bush spray, 

Among the opening buds, thy breathings pass, 

And come embalmed away. 


MAY EVENING. 


Yet there is sadness in thy soft caress, 

Wind of the blooming year ! 

The gentle presence, that was wont to bless 
Thy coming, is not here. 

Go, then ; and yet I bid thee not repair, 

Thy gathered sweets to shed, 

Where pine and willow, in the evening air, 
Sigh o’er the buried dead. 

Pass on to homes where cheerful voices sound, 
And cheerful looks are cast, 

And where thou wakest, in thine airy round, 
No sorrow of the past. 

Kefresh the languid student pausing o’er 
The learned page apart, 

And he shall turn to con his task once more 
With an encouraged heart. 

Bear thou a promise, from the fragrant sward, 
To him who tills the land, 

Of springing harvests that shall yet reward 
The labors of his hand. 

And whisper, everywhere, that Earth renews 
Her beau tiful'ar ray, 

Amid the darkness and the gathering dews, 
For the return of day. 


370 


LATEK POEMS. 


OCTOBER, 1866. 

’Twas when the earth in summer glory lay, 

We bore thee to thy grave ; a sudden cloud 

Had shed its shower and passed, and every spray 
And tender herb with pearly moisture bowed. 

How laughed the fields, and how, before our door, 
Danced the bright waters ! — from his perch on high 

The hang-bird sang his ditty o’er and o’er, 

And the song-sparrow from the shrubberies nigh. 

Yet was the home where thou wert lying dead 
Mournfully still, save when, at times, was heard, 

From room to room, some softly -moving tread, 

Or murmur of some softly-uttered word. 

Feared they to break thy slumber ? As we threw 
A look on that bright bay and glorious shore, 

Our hearts were wrung with anguish, for we knew 
Those sleeping eyes would look on them no more. 

Autumn is here ; we cull his lingering flowers 
And bring them to the spot where thou art laid ; 

The late-born offspring of his balmier hours, 

Spared by the frost, upon thy grave to fade. 

The sweet calm sunshine of October, now 
Warms the low spot ; upon its grassy mould 

The purple oak-leaf falls ; the birchen bough 
Drops its bright spoil like arrow-heads of gold. 

And gorgeous as the morn, a tall array 

Of woodland shelters the smooth fields around ; 

And guarded by its headlands, far away 

Sail-spotted, blue and lake like, sleeps the sound. 


OCTOBER, 1866. 


371 


I gaze in sadness ; it delights me not 

To look on beauty which thou canst not see ; 

And, wert thou by my side, the dreariest spot 
Were, oh, how far more beautiful to me ! 

In what fair region dost thou now abide ? 

Hath God, in the transparent deeps of space, 

Through which the planets in their journey glide, 
Prepared, lor souls like thine, a dwelling-place ? 

Fields of unwithering bloom, to mortal eye 
Invisible, though mortal eye were near, 

Musical groves, and bright streams murmuring by, 
Heard only by the spiritual ear ? 

Nay, let us deem that thou dost not withdraw 
From the dear places where thy lot was cast, 

And where thy heart, in love’s most holy law, 

Was schooled by all the memories of the past. 

Here on this earth, where once, among mankind, 
Walked God’s beloved Son, thine eyes may see 

Beauty to which our dimmer sense is blind 
And glory that may make it heaven to thee. 

May we not think that near us thou dost stand 
With loving ministrations, for we know 

Thy heart was never happy when thy hand 
Was forced its tasks of mercy to forego ! 

Mayst thou not prompt, with every coming day, 
The generous aim and act, and gently win 

Our restless, wandering thoughts to turn away 
From every treacherous path that ends in sin ! 


372 


LATER POEMS. 


THE ORDER OF NATURE. 

FROM BOETHIUS DE CONSOLATIONE. 

Thou who wouldst read, with an undarkened eye, 

The laws by which the Thunderer bears sway, 
Look at the stars that keep, in yonder sky, 

Unbroken peace from Nature’s earliest day. 

The great sun, as he guides his fiery car, 

Strikes not the cold moon in his rapid sweep, 

The Bear, that sees star setting after star 
In the blue brine, descends not to the deep. 

The star of eve still leads the hour of dews ; 

Duly the day-star ushers in the light ; 

With kindly alternations Love renews 

The eternal courses bringing day and night. 

Love drives away the brawler War, and keeps 
The realm and host of stars beyond his reach ; 

In one long calm the general concord steeps 
The elements, and tempers each to each. 

The moist gives place benignly to the dry ; 

Heat ratifies a faithful league with cold ; 

The nimble flame springs upward to the sky ; 

Down sinks by its own weight the sluggish mould. 

Still sweet with blossoms is the year’s fresh prime ; 

Her harvests still the ripening Summer yields ; 
Fruit-laden Autumn follows in his time, 

And rainy Winter waters still the fields. 


TREE— BTTKIAL. 


373 


The elemental harmony brings forth 

And rears all life, and, when life’s term is o’er, 

It sweeps the breathing myriads from the earth, 
And whelms and hides them to be seen no more : 

While the great Founder, he who gave these laws, 
Holds the firm reins and sits amid his skies 

Monarch and Master, Origin and Cause, 

And Arbiter supremely just and wise. 

He guides the force he gave ; his hand restrains 
And curbs it to the circle it must trace : 

Else the fair fabric which his power sustains 
Would fall to fragments in the void of space. 

Love binds the parts together, gladly still 

They court the kind restraint nor would be free; 

Unless Love held them subject to the Will 
That gave them being, they would cease to be. 


TREE-BURIAL. 

Near oiir southwestern border, when a child 
Dies in the cabin of an Indian wife, 

She makes its funeral-couch of delicate furs, 
Blankets and bark, and binds it to the bough 
Of some broad branching tree with leathern thongs 
And sinews of the deer. A mother once 
Wrought at this tender task, and murmured thus: 

“ Child of my love, I do not lay thee down 
Among the chilly clods where never comes 
The pleasant sunshine. There the greedy wolf 
Might break into thy grave and tear thee thence, 
And I should sorrow all my life. I make 
32 


374 


LATEE POEMS. 


Thy burial-place here, where the light of day 
Shines round thee, and the airs that play among 
The boughs shall rock thee. Here the morning sun, 
Which woke thee once from sleep to smile on me, 
Shall beam upon thy bed and sweetly here 
Shall lie the red light of the evening clouds 
Which called thee once to slumber. Here the stars 
Shall look upon thee — the bright stars of heaven 
Which thou didst wonder at. Here too the birds, 
Whose music thou didst love, shall sing to thee, 

And near thee build their nests and rear their young 
With none to scare them. Here the woodland flowers 
Whose opening in the spring-time thou didst greet 
With shouts of joy, and which so well became 
Thy pretty hands when thou didst gather them, 

Shall spot the ground below thy little bed. 

“Yet haply thou hast fairer flowers than these, 
Which, in the land of souls, thy spirit plucks 
In fields that wither not, amid the throng 
Of joyous children, like thyself, who went 
Before thee to that brighter world and sport 
Eternally beneath its cloudless skies. 

Sport with them, dear, dear child, until I come 
To dwell with thee, and thou, beholding me, 

From far, shalt run and leap into my arms, 

And I shall clasp thee as I clasped thee here 
While living, oh most beautiful and sweet, 

Of children, now more passing beautiful, 

If that can be, with eyes like summer stars — 

A light that death can never quench again. 

“ And now, oh wind, that here among the leaves 
Dost softly rustle, breathe thou ever thus 
Gently, and put not forth thy strength to tear 
The branches and let fall their precious load, 

A prey to foxes. Thou, too, ancient sun, 

Beneath whose eye the seasons come and go, 

And generations rise and pass away, 

While thou dost never change — oh, call not up 


A LEGEND OF TIIE DELAWAKES. 375 

With thy strong heats, the dark, grim thunder-cloud, 
To smite this tree with bolts of fire, and rend 
Its trunk and strew the earth with splintered boughs. 
Ye rains, fall softly on the couch that holds 
My darling. There the panther’s spotted hide 
Shall turn aside the shower; and be it long, 

Long after thou and I have met again, 

Ere summer wind or winter rain shall waste 
This couch and all that now remains of thee, 

To me thy mother. Meantime, while I live, 

With each returning sunrise I shall seem 
To see thy waking smile, and I shall weep ; 

And when the sun is setting I shall think 
How, as I watched thee, o’er thy sleepy eyes 
Drooped the smooth lids, and laid on the round cheek 
Their lashes, and my tears will flow again ; 

And often, at those moments, I shall seem 
To hear again the sweetly prattled name 
Which thou didst call me by, and it will haunt 
My home till I depart to be with thee.” 


A LEGEND OF THE DELAWARES. 

The air is dark with cloud on cloud, 

And, through the leaden-colored mass, 
With thunder-crashes quick and loud, 

A thousand shafts of lightning pas3. 

And to and fro they glance and go, 

Or, darting downward, smite the ground. 
What phantom arms are those that throw 
The shower of fiery arrows round ? 


376 


LATER POEMS. 


A louder crash ! a mighty oak 
Is smitten from that stormy sky. 
Its stem is shattered by the stroke ; 
Around its root the branches lie. 


Fresh breathes the wind ; the storm is o’er ; 

The piles of mist are swept away; 

And from the open sky, once more, 

Streams gloriously the golden day. 


A dusky hunter of the wild 

Is passing near, and stops to see 
The wreck of splintered branches piled 
About the roots of that huge tree. 


Lo, quaintly shaped and fairly strung, 
Wrought by what hand he cannot know, 
On that drenched pile of boughs, among 
The splinters, lies a polished bow. 


He lifts it up ; the drops that hang 
On the smooth surface slide away : 

Pe tries the string, no sharper twang 
Was ever heard on battle-day. 

Homeward Onetho bears the prize : 

Who meets him as he turns to go ? 

An aged chief, with quick, keen eyes, 

And bending frame, and locks of snow. 

“ See, what I bring, my father, see 
This goodly bow which I have found 
Beneath a thunder-riven tree, 

Dropped with the lightning to the ground.” 


A LEGEND OF THE DELA WAKES. 377 


“ Beware, my son ; it is not well ” — 

The white-haired chieftain makes reply— 
“ That we who in the forest dwell 
Should wield the weapons of the sky. 


‘ Lay back that weapon in its place ; 

Let those who bore it bear it still, 
Lest thou displease the ghostly race 
That float in mist from hill to hill.” 


“ My father, I will only try 

How well it sends a shaft, and then, 
Be sure, this goodly bow shall lie 
Among the splintered boughs again.” 


So to the hunting-ground he hies, 

To chase till eve the forest-game, 

And not a single arrow flies, 

From that good bow, with erring aim. 


And then he deems that they, who swim 
In trains of cloud the middle air, 
Perchance had kindly thoughts of him 
And dropped the bow for him to bear. 

He bears it from that day, and soon 
Becomes the mark of every eye, 

And wins renown with every moon 
That fills its circle in the sky. 

None strike so surely in the chase; 

None bring such trophies from the fight; 
And, at the council-fire, his place 
Is with the wise and men of might. 


378 


LATEE POEMS. 


And far across the land is spread, 
Among the hunter tribes, his fame ; 
Men name the bowyer-chief with dread 
Whose arrows never miss their aim. 


See next his broad-roofed cabin rise 
On a smooth river’s pleasant side, 
And she who has the brightest eyes 
Of all the tribe becomes his bride. 


A year has passed : the forest sleeps 
In early autumn’s sultry glow ; 
Onetho, on the mountain-steeps, 

Is hunting with that trusty bow. 


But they, who by the river dwell, 

See the dim vapors thickening o’er 
Long mountain-range and severing dell, 
And hear the thunder’s sullen roar. 


Still darker grows the spreading cloud 
From which the booming thunders sound, 
And stoops and haDgs a shadowy shroud 
Above Onetho’s hunting-ground. 


Then they who, from the river-vale, 
Are gazing on the distant storm, 
See in the mists that ride the gale, 
Dim shadows of the human form — 


Tall warriors, plumed, with streaming hair 
And lifted arms that bear the bow, 

And send athwart the murky air 
.The arrowy lightnings to and fro. 


A LEGEND OF THE DELAWARES. 379 


Loud is the tumult of an hour — 

Crash of torn boughs and howl of blast, 
And thunder-peal and pelting shower, 

And then the storm is overpast. 


Where is Onetho? what delays 

His coming ? why should he remain 
Among the plashy woodland ways, 

Swoln brooks and boughs that drip with rain ? 


He comes not, and the younger men 
Go forth to search the forest round. 
They track him to a mountain-glen, 
And find him lifeless on the ground. 


The goodly bow that was his pride 
Is gone, but there the arrows lie ; 
And now they know the death he died, 
Slain by the lightnings of the sky. 


They bear him thence in awe and fear 
Back to the vale with stealthy tread ; 
There silently, from far and near, 

The warriors gather round the dead. 

But in their homes the women bide ; 

Unseen they sit and weep apart, 

And, in her bower, Onetho’s bride 
Is sobbing with a broken heart. 

They lay in earth their bowyer-chief, 
And at his side their hands bestow 
His dreaded battle-axe and sheaf 
Of arrows, but without a bow. 


380 


LATER POEMS. 


“ Too soon he died ; it is not well” — 
The old men murmured, standing nigh, 
“ That we, who in the forest dwell, 
Should wield the weapons of the sky.” 


A LIFETIME. 

I sit in the early twilight, 

And, through the gathering shade, 

I look on the fields around me 
Where yet a child I played. 

And I peer into the shadows, 

Till they seem to pass away, 

And the fields and their tiny brooklet 
Lie clear in the light of day. 

A delicate child and slender, 

With locks of light-brown hair, 

From knoll to knoll is leaping 
In the breezy summer air. 

He stoops to gather blossoms 
Where the running waters shine ; 

And I look on him with wonder, 

His eyes are so like mine. 

I look till the fields and brooklet 
Swim like a vision by, 

And a room in a lowly dwelling 
Lies clear before my eye. 


A LIFETIME. 


381 


There stand, in the clean-swept fireplace, 
Fresh boughs from the wood in bloom, 
And the birch-tree’s fragrant branches 
Perfume the humble room. 


And there the child is standing 
By a stately lady’s knee, 

And reading of ancient peoples 
And realms beyond the sea. 


Of the cruel King of Egypt 
Who made God’s people slaves, 
And perished, with all his army, 
Drowned in the Red Sea waves ; 


Of Deborah who mustered 
Her brethren long oppressed, 
And routed the heathen army, 
And gave her people rest ; 


And the sadder, gentler story 
How Christ, the crucified, 

With a prayer for those who slew him, 
Forgave them as he died. 

I look again, and there rises 
A forest wide and wild, 

And in it the boy is wandering, 

No longer a little child. 

He murmurs his own rude verses 
As he roams the woods alone ; 

And again I gaze with wonder, 

His eyes are so like my own. 


382 


LATER POEMS. 


I see him next in his chamber, 
Where he sits him down to write 
The rhymes he framed in his ramble, 
And he cons them with delight. 


A kindly figure enters, 

A man of middle age, 

And points to a line just written, 
And ’tis blotted from the page. 


And next, in a hall of justice, 
Scarce grown to manly years, 
Mid the hoary-headed wranglers 
The slender youth appears. 


With a beating heart he rises, 
And with a burning cheek, 
And the judges kindly listen 
To hear the young man speak. 


Another change, and I see him 
Approach his dwelling-place 
Where a fair-haired woman meets him, 
With a smile on her young face — 


A smile that spreads a sunshine 
On lip and cheek and brow ; 
So sweet a smile there is not 
In all the wide earth now. 


She leads by the hand their first-born, 

A fair-haired little one, 

And their eyes as they meet him sparkle 
Like brooks in the morning sun. 


A LIFETIME. 


383 


Another change, and I see him 
Where the city’s ceaseless coil 
Sends up a mighty murmur 
From a thousand modes of toil. 


And there, ’mid the clash of presses, 
He plies the rapid pen 
In the battles of opinion, 

That divide the sons of men. 


I look and the clashing presses 
And the town are seen no more, 
But there is the poet wandering 
A strange and foreign shore. 


He has crossed the mighty ocean 
To realms that lie afar, 

In the region of ancient story, 
Beneath the morning star. 


And now he stands in wonder 
On an icy Alpine height ; 

Now pitches his tent in the desert 
Where the jackal yells at night ; 


Now, far on the North Sea islands, 
Sees day on the midnight sky, 

Now gathers the fair strange fruitage 
Where the isles of the Southland lie. 


I see him again at his dwelling, 
Where, over the little lake, 

The rose-trees droop in their beauty 
To meet the image they make. 


384 


LATEE POEMS. 


Though years have whitened his temples, 
His eyes have the first look still, 

Save a shade of settled sadness, 

A forecast of coming ill. 


For in that pleasant dwelling, 
On the rack of ceaseless pain, 
Lies she who smiled so sweetly, 
And prays for ease in vain. 


And I know that his heart is breaking, 
When, over those dear eyes, 

The darkness slowly gathers, 

And the loved and loving dies. 


A grave is scooped on the hill-side 
Where often, at eve or morn, 

He lays the blooms of the garden — 
He, and his youngest born. 


And well I know that a brightness 
From his life has passed away, 

And a smile from the green earth’s beauty, 
And a glory from the day. 

But I behold, above him, 

In the far blue deeps of air, 

Dim battlements shining faintly, 

And a throng of faces there ; 

See over crystal barrier 
The airy figures bend, 

Like those who are watching and waiting 
The coming of a friend. 


THE TWO TRAVELLERS. 


385 


And one there is among them, 

With a star upon her brow, 

In her life a lovely woman, 

A sinless seraph now. 

I know the sweet calm features ; 

The peerless smile I know, 

And I stretch my arms with transport 
From where I stand below. 

And the quick tears drown my eyelids, 
But the airy figures fade. 

And the shining battlements darken 
And blend with the evening shade. 

I am gazing into the twilight 

Where the dim-seen meadows lie, 
And the wind of night is swaying 
The trees with a heavy sigh. 


THE TWO TRAVELLERS. 

’Twas evening, and before my eyes 
There lay a landscape gray and dim — 
Fields faintly seen and twilight skies, 

And clouds that hid the horizon’s brim. 

I saw — or was it that I dreamed ? 

A waking dream ? — I cannot say, 

For every shape as real seemed 

As those which meet my eyes to-day. 

33 


LATER POEMS. 


Through leafless shrubs the cold wind hissed 
The air was thick with falling snow, 

And onward, through the frozen mist, 

I saw a weary traveller go. 


Driven o’er the landscape, bare and bleak, 
Before the whirling gusts of air, 

The snow-flakes, smote his withered cheek, 
And gathered on his silver hair. 


Yet on he fared through blinding snows, 
And murmuring to himself he said : 

“ The night is near ; the darkness grows, 
And higher rise the drifts I tread. 


“ Deep, deep, each autumn flower they hide ; 

Each tuft of green they whelm from sight ; 
And they who journeyed by my side, 

Are lost in the surrounding night. 


“ I loved them ; oh, no words can tell 
The love that to my friends I bore ; 
They left me with the sad farewell 
Of those who part to meet no more. 

“And I, who face this bitter wind 
And o’er these snowy hillocks creep, 
Must end my journey soon, and find 
A frosty couch, a frozen sleep.” 


As thus he spoke, a thrill of pain 
Shot to my heart — I closed my eyes ; 
But when I opened them again, 

I started with a glad surprise. 


THE TWO TEAVELLEES. 


387 


’Twas evening still, and in the west 
A flush of glowing crimson lay ; 

I saw the morrow there, and blest 
That promise of a glorious day. 


The waters, in their glassy sleep, 

Shone with the hues that tinged the sky, 
And rugged cliff and barren steep 

Gleamed with the brightness from on high. 


And one was there whose journey lay 
Into the slowly-gathering night ; 

With steady step he held his way, 

O’er shadowy vale aud gleaming height. 

I marked his firm though weary tread, 

The lifted eye and brow serene ; 

And saw no shade of doubt or dread 
Pass o’er that traveller’s placid mien. 

And others came, their journey o’er, 

And bade good-night, with words of cheer: 
“ To-morrow we shall meet once more ; 

’Tis but the night that parts us here.” 


“And I,” he said, “ shall sleep ere long ; 

These fading gleams will soon be gone ; 
Shall sleep to rise refreshed and strong 
In the bright day that yet will dawn.” 


I heard ; I watched him as he went, 

A lessening form, until the light 
Of evening from the firmament 
Had passed, and he was lost to sight. 


388 


LATER POEMS. 


CHRISTMAS IN 1875. 

SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY A SPANIARD. 

No trumpet-blast profaned 
The hour in which the Prince of Peace was born ; 

No bloody streamlet stained 
Earth’s silver rivers on that sacred morn ; 

But, o’er the peaceful plain, 

The war-horse drew the peasant’s loaded wain. 


The soldier had laid by 

The sword and stripped the corselet from his breast, 
And hung his helm on high — 

The sparrow’s winter home and summer nest ; 

And, with the same strong hand 
That flung the barbed spear, he tilled the land. 


Oh, time for which we yearn ; 

Oh, sabbath of the nations long foretold ! 

Season of peace, return, 

Like a late summer when the year grows old, 
When the sweet sunny days 
Steep mead and mountain-side in golden haze. 


For now two rival kings 

Flaunt, o’er our bleeding land, their hostile flags, 
And every sunrise brings 
The hovering vulture from his mountain-crags 
To where the battle-plain 

Is strewn with dead, the youth and flower of Spain. 


CHKISTMAS IN 1875. 


389 


Christ is not come, while yet 
O’er half the earth the threat of battle lowers, 

And our own fields are wet, 

Beneath the battle-cloud, with crimson showers — 
The life-blood of the slain, 

Poured out where thousands die that one may reign. 


Soon, over half the earth, 

In every temple crowds shall kneel again 
To celebrate His birth 

Who brought the message of good-will to men, 
And bursts of joyous song 
Shall shake the roof above the prostrate throng. 


Christ is not come while there 
The men of blood whose crimes affront the skies 
Kneel down in act of prayer, 

Amid the joyous strains, and when they rise 
Go forth, with sword and flame, 

To waste the land in His most holy name. 

Oh, when the day shall break 
O’er realms unlearned in warfare’s cruel arts, 
And all their millions wake 
To peaceful tasks performed with loving hearts, 
On such a blessed morn, 

Well may the nations say that Christ is born. 


390 


LATER POEMS. 


THE FLOOD OF YEARS. 

A mighty Hand, from an exhaustless Urn, 

Pours forth the never-ending Flood of Years, 
Among the nations. How the rushing waves 
Bear all before them ! On their foremost edge, 
And there alone, is Life. The Present there 
Tosses and foams, and fills the air with roar 
Of mingled noises. There are they who toil, 

And they who strive, and they who feast, and they 
Who hurry to and fro. The sturdy swain — 
Woodman and delver with the spade — is there, 

And busy artisan beside his bench, 

And pallid student with his written roll. 

A moment on the mounting billow seen, 

The flood sweeps over them and they are gone. 
There groups of revellers whose brows are twined 
With roses, ride the topmost swell awhile, 

And as they raise their flowing cups and touch 
The clinking brim to brim, are whirled beneath 
The waves and disappear. I hear the jar 
Of beaten drums, and thunders that break forth 
From cannon, where the advancing billow sends 
Up to the sight long files of armed men, 

That hurry to the charge through flame and smoke. 
The torrent bears them under, whelmed and hid 
Slayer and slain, in heaps of bloody foam. 

Down go the steed and rider, the plumed chief 
Sinks with his followers; the head that wears 
The imperial diadem goes down beside 
The felon’s with cropped ear and branded cheek. 

A funeral-train — the torrent sweeps away 
Bearers and bier and mourners. By the bed 
Of one who dies men gather sorrowing, 

And women weep aloud ; the flood rolls on ; 


THE FLOOD OF YEAES. 


391 


The wail is stifled and the sobbing group 
Borne under. Hark to that shrill, sudden shout, 
The cry of an applauding multitude, 

Swayed by some loud-voiced orator who wields 
The living mass as if he were its soul ! 

The waters choke the shout and all is still. 

Lo ! next a kneeling crowd, and one who spreads 
The hands in prayer, the engulfing wave o’ertakes 
And swallows them and him. A sculptor wields 
The chisel, and the stricken marble grows 
To beauty ; at his easel, eager-eyed, 

A painter stands, and sunshine at his touch 
Gathers upon his canvas, and life glows ; 

A poet, as he paces to and fro, 

Murmurs his sounding lines. Awhile they ride 
The advancing billow, till its tossing crest 
Strikes them and flings them under, while their tasks 
Are yet unfinished. See a mother smile 
On her young babe that smiles to her again ; 

The torrent wrests it from her arms ; she shrieks 
And weeps, and midst her tears is carried down. 

A beam like that of moonlight turns the spray 
To glistening pearls ; two lovers, hand in hand, 

Rise on the billowy swell and fondly look 
Into each other’s eyes. The rushing flood 
Flings them apart : the youth goes down ; the maid 
With hands outstretched in vain, and streaming eyes, 
Waits for the next high wave to follow him. 

An aged man succeeds; his bending form 
Sinks slowly. Mingling with the sullen stream 
Gleam the w'hite locks, and then are seen no more. 

Lo ! wider grows the stream — a sea-like flood 
Saps earth’s walled cities ; massive palaces 
Crumble before it ; fortresses and towers 
Dissolve in the swift waters ; populous realms 
Swept by the torrent see their ancient tribes 
Engulfed and lost ; their very languages 
Stifled, and never to be uttered more. 


392 


LATER POEMS. 


I pause and turn my eyes, and looking back 
Where that tumultuous flood has been, I see 
The silent ocean of the Past, a waste 
Of waters weltering over graves, its shores 
Strewn with the wreck of fleets where mast and hull 
Drop away piecemeal ; battlemented walls 
Frown idly, green with moss, and temples stand 
Unroofed, forsaken by the worshipper. 

There lie memorial stones, whence time has gnawed 
The graven legends, thrones of kings o’erturned, 

The broken altars of forgotten gods, 

Foundations of old cities and long streets 
Where never fall of human foot is heard, 

On all the desolate pavement. I behold 
Dim glimmerings of lost jewels, far within 
The sleeping waters, diamond, sardonyx, 

Ruby and topaz, pearl and chrysolite, 

Once glittering at the banquet on fair brows 
That long ago were dust, and all around 
Strewn on the surface of that silent sea 
Are withering bridal wreaths, and glossy locks 
Shorn from dear brows, by loving hands, and scrolls 
O’er written, haply with fond words of love 
And vows of friendship, and fair pages flung 
Fresh from the printer’s engine. There they lie 
A moment, and then sink away from sight. 

I look, and the quick tears are in my eyes, 

For I behold in every one of these 

A blighted hope, a separate history 

Of human sorrows, telling of dear ties 

Suddenly broken, dreams of happiness 

Dissolved in air, and happy days too brief 

That sorrowfully ended, and I think 

How painfully must the poor heart have beat 

In bosoms without number, as the blow 

Was struck that slew their hope and broke their peace. 

Sadly I turn and look before, where yet 
The Flood must pass, and I behold a mist 


THE FLOOD OF YEARS. 


393 


Where swarm dissolving forms, the brood of Hope. 
Divinely fair, that rest on banks of flowers, 

Or wander among rainbows, fading soon 
And reappearing, haply giving place 
To forms of grisly aspect such as Fear 
Shapes from the idle air — where serpents lift 
The head to strike, and skeletons stretch forth 
The bony arm in menace. Further on 
A belt of darkness seems to bar the way 
Long, low, and distant, where the Life to come 
Touches the Life that is. The Flood of Years 
Rolls toward it near and nearer. It must ^ass 
That dismal barrier. What is there beyond ? 

Hear what the wise and good have said. Beyond 
That belt of darkness, still the Years roll on 
More gently, but with not less mighty sweep. 

They gather up again and softly bear 

All the sweet lives that late were overwhelmed 

And lost to sight, all that in them was good, 

Noble, and truly great, and worthy of love — 

The lives of infants and ingenuous youths, 

Sages and saintly women who have made 
Their households happy; all are raised and borne 
By that great current in its onward sweep, 
Wandering and rippling with caressing waves 
Around green islands fragrant with the breath 
Of flowers that never wither. So they pass 
From stage to stage along the shining course 
Of that bright river, broadening like a sea. 

As its smooth eddies curl along their way 

They bring old friends together ; hands are clasped 

In joy unspeakable ; the mother’s arms 

Again are folded round the child she loved 

And lost. Old sorrows are forgotten now, 

Or but remembered to make sweet the hour 
That overpays them ; wounded hearts that bled 
Or broke are healed forever. In the room 
Of this grief-shadowed present, there shall be 


894 


LATER POEMS. 


A Present in whose reign no grief shall gnaw 
The heart, and never shall a tender tie 
Be broken ; in whose reign the eternal Change 
That waits on growth and action shall proceed 
With everlasting Concord hand in hand. 


OUR FELLOW-WORSHIPPERS. 

Think not that thou and I 
Are here the only worshippers to-day, 

Beneath this glorious sky, 

’Mid the soft airs that o’er the meadows play 
These airs, whose breathing stirs 
The fresh grass, are our fellow-worshippers. 

See, as they pass, they swing, 

The censers of a thousand flowers that bend 
O’er the young herbs of spring, 

And the sweet odors like a prayer ascend, 

While, passing thence, the breeze 
Wakes the grave anthem of the forest-trees. 

It is as when, of yore, 

The Hebrew poet called the mountain-steeps, 

The forests, and the shore 
Of ocean, and the mighty mid-sea deeps, 

And stormy wind, to raise 
A universal symphony of praise. 

For, lo ! the hills around, 

Gay in their early green, give silent thanks ; 

And, with a joyous sound, 

The streamlet’s huddling waters kiss their banks, 
And, from its sunny nooks, 

To heaven, with grateful smiles, the valley looks. 


OUR FELLOW-WORSHIPPERS. 


395 


The blossomed apple-tree, 

Among its flowery tufts, on every spray, 
Offers the wandering bee 
A fragrant chapel for his matin-lay ; 

And a soft bass is heard 
From the quick pinions of the humming-bird. 

Haply — for who can tell ? — 

Aerial beings, from the world unseen, 
Haunting the sunny dell, 

Or slowly floating o’er the flowery green, 

May join our worship here, 

With harmonies too fine for mortal ear. 


NOTES 


Puge 18, 

POEM OF T1IK AGES. 

In tills poem, written and first printed in the yeai 1821, the 
author baa endeavored, from a survey of the past ages of the 
world, and of the successive advances of mankind in knowledge, 
virtue, and happiness, to justify and confirm the hopes of the 
philanthropist for the future destinies of the human race. 

Page 37. 

TIIE BURIAL-PLACE. 

The first half of this fragment may seem to the reader bor- 
rowed from the essay on liural Funerals in the fourth number of 
the Sketch-Book. The lines were, however, written more than 
a year before that number appeared. The poem, unfinisned as it 
is, would hardly have been admitted into this collection, had not 
the author been unwilling to lose what had the honor of resem- 
bling so beautiful a composition. 

Page 48. 

THE MASSACRE AT SCIO. 

This poem, written about the time of the horrible butchery 
of the Scio-tes by the Turks, in 1S24, has been more fortunate 
than most poetical predictions. The independence of the Greek 
nation, wjiich it foretold, has come to pass, and the massacre, by 
Inspirir.g’a deeper detestation of their oppressors, did much to 
Promote that event 


Page 48. 

Her maiden veil , her own Hack hair . &c. 


“The unmarried females have a inodost falling dowu oi the 
ntJi over the eyes.” — E liot. 

u 


898 


NOTES. 


Page 69. 

MONUMENT MOUNTAIN. 

The mountain called by this name, is a remarkable precipice 
in Great Barrington, overlooking the rich and picturesque valley 
of the Housatonic, in the western part of Massachusetts. At the 
southern extremity is, or was a few years since, a conical pile of 
Bmall stones, erected, according to the tradition of the surround- 
ing country, bv the Indians, in memory of a woman of the Stock- 
bridge tribe, who killed herself by leaping from the edge of the 
precipice. Until within few years past, small parties of that 
tribe used to arrive from their settlement in the western part of 
the State of New York, on visits to Stockbridge, the place of their 
nativity and former residence. A young woman belonging to one 
of these parties, related, to a friend of the author, the story on 
which the poem of Mountain Monument is founded. An Indian 
girl had formed an attachment for her cousin, which, according 
to the customs of the tribe, was unlawful. She was, in conse- 
quence, seized with a deep melancholy, and resolved to destroy 
herself. In company with a female friend, she repaired to the 
mountain, decked out for the occasion in all her ornaments, and, 
after passing the day on the summit in singing with her com- 
panion the traditional songs of her nation, she threw herself head- 
long from the rock, and was killed. 

Page SO. 

THE MURDERED TRAVELLER. 

Some years since, in the month of May, the remains of a hu 
man body, partly devoured by wild animals, were found in a 
woody ravine, near a solitary road passing between the mountains 
west of the village of Stockbridge. It was supposed that the per- 
son came to his death by violence, but no traces could be discov- 
ered of his murderers. It was only recollected that one evening, 
in the course of the previous winter, a traveller had stopped at 
an inn in the village of West Stockbridge; that he had inquired 
the way to Stockbridge; and that, in paying the innkeeper for 
something he had ordered, it appeared that he had a considerable 
sum of money in his possession. Two ill-looking men were 
Dresent, and went out about the same time that the traveller 
proceeded on his journey. During the winter, also, two men of 
shabby appearance, but plentifully supplied with money, had lin- 
gered for awhile about the village of Stockbridge. Several years 
afterward, a criminal, about to be executed for a capital offence 
in Canada, confessed that he had been concerned in murdering a 
traveller in Stockbridge for the sake of his money. Nothing was 
ever discovered respecting the name or residence of the person 
murdered. 


NOTE8. 


309 


Page 118. 

Chained in the market place he stood , Ac. 

The story of the African Chief, reiate.l in this ballad, may be 
found in the African Repository for April, 1825. The subject of 
it was a warrior of majestic stature, the brother of Yarradee, king 
of the Solitna nation. He had been taken in battle, and was 
brought in chains for sale to the Kio Pongas, where lie was ex- 
aibited in the market-place, his ankles still adorned with the 
massy rings of gold which he wore when captured. The refusal 
of bis captor to listen to his offers of ransom drove him mad, and 
he died a maniac. 


Page 124. 

TIIE CONJUNCTION OP JUPITER AND VENUS. 

This conjunction was said in the common Calendars to have 
taken place on the 2d of August, 1826. This. I believe, was an 
error, but the apparent approach of the planets was sufficiently 
near for poetical purposes. 


Pago 130. 

THE HURRICANE. 

This poem is nearly a translation from one by «Tos6 Maria de 
Heredia, a native of the Island of Cuba, who published at New 
York, about the year 1825, a volume of poems in tho Spanish 
language. 


Page 132. 

WILLIAM TELL. 

Neither this, nor any of the other sonnets in the collection, 
with the exception of the one from the Portuguese, is framed ac- 
cording to the legitimate Italian model, which, in the author’s 
opinion, possesses no peculiar beauty for an ear accustomed only 
to the metrical forms of our own language. The sonnets in this 
collection are rather poems in fourteen lines than sonnets. 

Page 133. 

The slim papaya ripens , Ac. 

Papava— papaw, custard-apple. Flint, in his excellent work 
/ii the Geography and History of the Western States, thus de- 
scribes this tree and its fruit : 

“ A papaw shrub, hanging full of fruits, of a size and weight so 
disproportioned to the stem, and from under long and rich-look- 


400 


NOTES. 


lng leaves, of the same yellow with the ripene<1 fruit, and of at 
African luxuriance of growth, is to us one of the richest spccta* 
cles that we have ever contemplated in the array of the woods. 
The fruit contains from two to six seeds like those of the tama- 
rind, except that they are double the size. The pulp of -the fruit 
resembles egg-custard in consistence and appearance. It has the 
same creamy feeling in the mouth, and unites the taste of eggs, 
cream, sugar, and spice. It is a natural custard, too lusdious for 
the relish of most people.” 

Chateaubriand, in his Travels, speaks disparagingly of the 
fruit of the papaw; but on the authority of Mr. Flint, who must 
know more of the matter, I have ventured to make my western 
lover enumerate it among the delicacies of the wilderness. 

Page 147. 

The surface rolls and fluctuates to the eye. 

The prairies of the West, with an undulating surfaco, rolling 
prairies , as they are called, present to the unaccustomed eye a 
singular spectacle when the shadows of the clouds are passing 
rapidly over them. The face of the ground seems to fluctuate 
and toss like billows of the sea. 

Page 147. 

The prairie-hawk that , poised on high , 

Flaps his broad wings , yet moves not. 

I have seen the prairie-hawk balancing himself in the air for 
hours together, apparently over the same "spot ; probably watch 
lng his prey. 


Page 148. 

These ample fields 
Nourished their harvests. 

The size and extent of the mounds in the valley of the Missis 
elppi, indicate the existence, at a remote period, of a nation at 
once populous and laborious, and therefore probably subsisting 
by agriculture. 


Page 149. 

The rude conquerors 
Seated the captive with their chiefs. 

Instances are not wanting of generosity like this among ttu 
North American Indians towards a captive or survivor of a hot 
tile tribe on whicl tne greatest cruelties had been exercised. 


NOTES. 


401 


Page 150. 

bong of Marion’s mrn. 

The exploits of General Francis Marion, the famous partisan 
varrior of South Carolina, form an interesting chapter in the an- 
nals of the American revolution. The troops were so harassed 
by the irregular ana successful warfare which he kept up at the 
head of a few daring followers, that they sent an officer to re- 
monstrate with him for not coming into the open field and fight- 
ing “like a gentleman and a Christian.'’ 

Page 157. 

MARY MAGDALEN. 

Several learned divines, with much appearance of reason, in 
particular Dr. Lardner, have maintained tiiat the common notion 
respecting the dissolute life of Mary Magdalen is erroneous, and 
that she was always a person of excellent character. Charles Tay- 
lor, the editor of Calmet’s Dictionary of the Bible, takes the same 
view of the subject. 

The verses of the Spanish poet here translated refer to th< 
“ woman who had been a sinner,” mentioned in the seventh chap- 
ter of St. Luke’s Gospel, and who is oommonly confounded with 
Mary Magdalen. 

Page 159. 

FATIMA AND RADUAN. 

This and the following poems belonjg to that class of ancient 
Spanish ballads, by unknown authors, called Romances Moriscos 
— Moriscan romances or ballads. They were composed in the 
14th century, some of them, probably, by the Moors, who then 
lived intermingled with the Christians; and they relate the loves 
and achievements of the knights of Grenada. 

Tage 161. 

LOVE AND FOLLY. — (FROM LA FONTAINE.) 

This is rather an imitation than a translation of the poem of 
the graceful French fabulist 

Page 1C5. 

These eyes shall not recall t/iee, Ac. 

This is the very expression of the origitai— No te llamardn 
mis ojos , Ac. The Spanish poets early adopted the practice of 
calling a lady by the name of the most expressive feature of her 
countenance, her eyes. The lover styled "his mistress “ojos bnl- 
ios,” beautiful eyes; “ojos serenos, - ’ serene eyes. Green even 


402 


NOTES. 


(«em to have been anciently thought a great beauty in Spain 
Mid there is a very pretty ballad by an absent lover, in which he 
addressed his lady by the title of u green eyes ; ” supplicating tha: 
no may remain in her remembrance. 

i Ay ojuelos verdes ! 

Ay los mis ojuelos! 

Ay, hagan los cielos 
Que de mi te acuerdes ! 

Page 161. 

Say, Love—fcr thou didst see her tears, <fec. 

The stanza beginning with this line stands thus in the origi- 
nal : — 

Dilo tu, amor, si lo viste; 

i Mas ay ! que de lastimado 
Diste otro nudo a la venda, 

Para no ver lo que ha pasado. 

I am sorry to find so poor a conceit deforming so spirited a 
composition as this old ballad, but I have preserved it in the ver- 
sion. It is one of those extravagances which afterwards became 
so common in Spanish poetry, when Gongora introduced the 
estilo c.ulto, as it was called. 


Page 1 6S. 

LOVE IN TIIE AGE OF CII1VALKY. 

This personification of the passion of Love, by Peyre Vidal, 
has been referred to as a proof of how little the Provenpal poets 
were indebted to the authors of Greece and Borne for the imagery 
of their poems. 

Page 169. 

THF, LOVE OF GOD. — (FROM TUE PROVENQAL OF BERNARD RASCAS.) 

The original of these lines is thus given by John of Nostrada- 
mus, in his lives of the Troubadours, in a barbarous Frenchified 
•rthography : — 

Touta kansa mortala una fes perira, 

Fors que l'amour de Dieu, que tousiours durarn. 

Tous nostres cors vendran essuchs, come fa I’eeka, 

Lous Aubres leyssaran lour verdonr tendra e fresca, 

Lous Ausselets del hose perdran lour kant subtyeu, 

E non s’auzira plus Ion Rossignol gentyeu. 

Lous Buols al Pastourgage, e las biankas fedettas 
Sent'ran lous agulhons de las mortals Sagettas, 

Lous crestas d' Arles tiers, Renards, e Loops espars 
Kabrols, Cervys, Chamous, Senglars de toutes pars, 

L >us Ours hardys e forts, seran poudra, e Arena. 


- NOTES. 


403 


Lou Daulphin en la Mar. lou Ton, e la Balena, 

Monstres impetuous, Kyaumes, e Corntas, 

Lous Prinees, e lous Keys, seran per inert domtas. 

£ nota ben eysso kascun : la Terra granda, 

(Ou l'Escrltura merit) lou fermament que branda, 
Prendra autra flgura. Enfln tout perira, 

Fors que T Amour de Dieu, que touiours durara. 

Page 170. 

FROM THE SPANISn OP PEDRO DE CASTRO Y ANAYA. 

Las Auroras de Diana , in which the original of these line* 
is contained, is, notwithstanding it was praised by Lope de Vega, 
one of the worst of the old Spanish Romances, being a tissue of 
riddles and affectations, with now and then a little poem of con- 
siderable beauty. 

Page lS-i, 

EARTH. 

The author began this poem in rhyme. The following is the 
first draught of it as far as he proceeded, in a stauza which he 
found it convenient to abandon. 

A midnight black with clouds is on the sky; 

A shadow like the first original night 
Folds in, and seems to press ine as 1 lie; 

No image meets the vainly wandering sight, 

And shot through rolling mists no starlight gleam 
Glances on glassy pool or rippling stream. 

No ruddy blaze, from dwellings bright within, 

Tinges the flowering summits of the grass ; 

No sound of life is heard, no village din. 

Wings rustling overhead or steps that pass, 

While, on the breast of earth at random thrown, 

I listen to her mignty voice alone. 

A voice of many tones ; deep murmurs sent 
From waters that in darkness glide away, 

From woods unseen by sweeping breezes bent, 

From rocky chasms where darkness dwells all day, 

And hollows of the invisible hills around, 

Blent in one ceaseless, melancholy sound. 

Oh Earth ! dost thou, too, sorrow for the past ? 

Mourn'st thou thy childhood's unreturning hours, 

Thy springs, that briefly bloomed and faded fast, 

The gentle generations of thy flowers, 

Thy forests of the elder time, decayed 

And gone with all the tribes that loved their shade ? 


404 


NOTES. 


Monrn’st thou that first fair time so early lost, 

The golden age that lives in poets' strains, 

Ere hail or lightning, whirlwind, flood or frost 
Scathed thy green breast, or earthquakes whelmed thy plains j 
Ere blood upon the shuddering ground was spilt, 

Or night was haunted by disease and guilt ? 

Or haply dost thou grieve for those who die ? 

For living things that trod awhile thy face. 

The love of thee and heaven, and now they Us 
Mixed with the shapeless dust the wild winds chaso? 

I, too, must grieve, for never on thy sphere 
Shall those blight forms and faces reappear. 

Ha ! with a deeper and more thrilling tone, 

Rises that voice around me, 'tis the cry 
Of Earth for guilt and wrong, the eternal moan 
Sent to the listening and long-suffering sky. 

I hear and tremble, and my heart grows faint, 

As midst the night goes up that great complaint. 

Page 199. 

Where Imr's clay -white rivulet s run 
Through the dark woods , like frighted deer. 

Close to the city of Munich, in Bavaria, lies the spacious and 
beautiful pleasure-ground, called the English Garden, in which 
these lines were written, originally projected and laid out by oui 
countryman, Count Rumford, under the auspices of one of the 
sovereigns of the country. Winding walks of great extent, pass 
through close thickets and groves interspersed with lawns; and 
streams, diverted from the river Isar. traverse the grounds swiftly 
in various directions, the water of which, stained with the clay 
of the soil it has corroded in its descent from the upper country, 
is frequently of a turbid white color. 

Page 204. 

THE GREEN MOUNTAIN BOYS. 

This song refers to the expedition of the Vermonters, com- 
manded by Ethan Allen, by whom the British fort of Ticon- 
deroga, on "Lake Champlain, was surprised and taken, in May, 1775. 

Page 206. 

TI1E child's FUNERAL. 

The incident on which this poem is founded was related to 
the author while in Europe, in a letter from an English hdy. A 
ehfld died in the south of Italy, and when they went to bury it 


NOTES. 


405 


they found It. revived and playing: with the flowers which, after 
the manner of that country, had been brought to grace its funeral 

Page 211. 

'Tis said , when Schiller's death drew nigh , 

The wish possessed his mighty mind, 

To wander forth wherever lie 
The homes and haunts of human kind. 

Shortly before the death of Schiller, he was seized with a 
strong desire to travel in foreign countries, as if his spirit had a 
presentiment of its approaching enlargement, and already longed 
to expatiate in a wider and more varied sphere of existence. 


Page 213. 

The flower 

Of Sangninaria.from whose brittle stem 
The red drops fell like blood. 

The Sanguinaria Canadensis , or blood-root, as it is com- 
monly called, bears a delicate white flower of a musky scent, the 
stein of which breaks easily, and distils a juice of a bright red 
color. 


Page 219. 

The shad-bush , white with flowers , 

Brightened the glens. 

The small tree, named by the botanists Aronia Botyrapium, 
s called, in some parts of our country, the shad-bush, from the 
circumstance that it flowers about the time that the shad ascend 
the rivers in early spring. Its delicate sprays, covered with white 
blossoms before the trees are yet in leaf, have a singularly beau- 
tiful appearance in the woods. 


Page 220. 

“ There hast thou ," said my friend, “ a fitting type 
Of human life. 

1 remember hearing an aged man. in the country, compare 
the slow movement of time in early life and its swift flight as it 
approaches old age, to the drumming of a partridge or ruffed 
grouse in the woods — the strokes falling slow and distinct at first, 
end following each other more and more rapidly, till they end at 
lost in a whirring sound. 


406 


NOTES, 


Page 222. 

AN EVENING REVERT. — FROM AN UNFINISHED POEM. 

This poem and that entitled the Fountain, with one or two 
others in blank verse, were intended by the author as portions 
of a larger poem, in which they may hereafter take their place. 

Page 224. 

The freeh savannas of the Sangamon 
ITere rise in gentle sicells , and the long grass 
Is mined with rustling hazels. Scarlet tufts 
Are glowing in the green , like flakes of fire. 

The Painted Cup, Euchroma Coccinea , or Bartsia Coccinea , 
grows in great abundance in the hazel prairies of the western 
states, where its scarlet tufts make a brilliant appearance in the 
midst of the verdure. The Sangamon is a beautiful river, tribu- 
tary to the Illinois, bordered with rich prairies. 

Page 233. 

The long wave rolling from the southern pole 
To break upon Japan. 

“ Breaks the long wave that at the pole began.” — Tennent’g 
A.N8TER Fair. 


Page 234. 

At noon the Hebrew bowed the knee 
And worshipped. 

“Evening and morning, and at noon, will I pray and cry aloud, 
and he shall hear my voice.” — Psalm lv. 17. 

Page 237. 

THE WHITE-FOOTED DEER. 

“ During the stay of Long’s Expedition at Engineer Canton- 
ment, three specimens of a variety of the common deer were 
brought in, having all the feet white near the hoofs, and extend- 
ing to those on the hind feet from a little above the spurious 
hoofs. This white extremity was divided, upon the sides of the 
foot, by the general color of the leg, which extends down near to 
the hoofs, leaving a white triangle in front, of which the point 
was elevated rather higher than the spurious hoofs.” — Godman’s 
Natural History, vol. ii. p. 314. 


NOTES, 


407 


Page 269. 

THE LOST BIRD. 

Readers who are acquainted with the Spanish language, mnj 
Cot be displeased at seeing the original of this little poem : 

EL PAJARO PERDIDO. 

Huyo con vuelo incierto, 

Y de mis ojos ha desparecido. 

Mirad, si, a vuestro huerto, 

Mi pajaro querido, 

Ninas hermosas, por acaso ha huido. 

Sus cjos relucientes 
Son como los del aguila orgullosa ; 

Plumas resplandecientes, 

En la cabeza airosa, 

Lleva ; y su voz es tierna y armoniosa. 

Mirad, si cuidadoso 

Junto a las flores se escondio en la grama 
Ese laurel frondoso 
Mirad, rama por rama, 

Que el los laureles y los flores ama 

Si le hallais, por ventura 
No os enamore su amoroso acento ; 

No os prende su hermosura; 

Volvedmele al momento ; 

O dejadle, si no, libre en el viento. 

Por que su pico de oro 
Solo en mi mano toma la semilla ; 

Y no enjugare el lloro 
Que veis en mi mejilla, 

Hasta encoutrar mi profugo avecilla. 

Mi vista se oscurece, , 

Si sus ojos no ve, que son mi dia. 

Mi anima deslallece 
Con la melancolia 
De no escucharle ya 6U melodia. 

The literature of Spain at the present day has this peculiar- 
ity, that female writers have, in considerable number, entered 
into competition with the other sex. One of the most remark- 
able of these, as a writer of both prose and poetry, is Carolina 


i 


408 


NOTES. 


Coronado de Perry, the author of the Httle poem here given. 
The poetical literature of Spain has felt the influence of the 
female mind in the infusion of a certain delicacy and tender- 
ness, and the more frequent choice of subjects which interest 
the domestic affections. Concerning the verses of the lady 
already mentioned, Don Juan Eugenio Hartzenbusch, one of 
the most accomplished Spanish critics of the present day, and 
himself a successful dramatic writer, says : 

“ If Carolina Coronado had, through modesty, sent her pro- 
ductions from Estremadura to Madrid under the name of a per- 
son of the other sex, it would still have been difficult for intel- 
ligent readers to persuade themselves that they were written 
by a man, or at least., considering their graceful sweetness, 
purity of tone, simplicity of conception, brevity of develop- 
ment, and delicate and particular choice of subject, we should 
be constrained to attribute them to one yet in his early youth, 
whom the imagination would represent as ingenuous, innocent, 
and gay, who had scarce ever wandered beyond the flowery 
grove or pleasant valley where his cradle was rocked, and 
where he had been lulled to sleep by the sweetest songs of 
Francisco de la Torre, Garcilaso, and Melendez.” 

The author of the Pajaro Perdido , according to a memoir 
of her by Angel Fernandez de los Bios, was born at Alrnen- 
aralejo, in Estremadura, in 1823. At the age of nine years she 
began to steal from sleep, after a day passed in various lessons, 
and in domestic occupations, several hours every night to read 
the poets of her country, and other books belonging to the library 
of the household, among which are mentioned, as a proof of her 
vehement love of reading, the Critical History of Spain, by the 
Abbe Masuden, “and other works equally dry and prolix.” 
She was afterwards sent to Badajoz, where she received the 
best education which the state of the country, then on fire 
with a civil war, would admit. Here the intensity of her ap- 
plication to her studies caused a severe malady, which has fre- 
quently recurred in after-life. At the age of thirteen years she 
wrote a poem entitled La Palma ■, which the author of her 
biography declares to be worthy of Herrera, and which led 
Espronceda, a poet of Estremadura, a man of genius, and the 
author of several translations from By r ron, whom he resembled 
both in mental and personal characteristics, to address her an 
eulogistic sonnet. In 1843, when she was but twenty years 
old, a volume of her poems was published at Madrid, in which 
were included both that entitled La Palma and the one I have 
given in this note. To this volume Hartzenbusch, in his admi- 
ration for her genius, prefaced an introduction. 

The task of writing verses in Spanish is not difficult. 
Khymes are readily found, and the language is easily moulded 
into metrical forms. Those who have distinguished them- 
selves in this literature have generally made their first essays 
in verse. What is remarkable enough, the men who afterward 


NOTES. 


409 


figure in political life mostly begin their career as the authors 
of madrigals. A poem introduces the future statesman to the 
public, as a speech at a popular meeting introduces the candi- 
date for political distinction in this country. I have heard of 
but one of the eminent Spanish politicians of the present time, 
who made a boast that he was innocent of poetry, and if all 
that his enemies say of him be true, it would have been well 
both for his country and his own fame, if he had been equally 
innocent of corrupt practices. The compositions of Carolina 
Coronado, even her earliest, do not deserve to be classed with 
the productions of which we have spoken, and which are sim- 
ply the effect of inclination and facility. They possess the 
mens divinior. 

In 1852 a collection of the poems of Carolina Coronado was 
brought out at Madrid, including those which were first pub 
lisbed. The subjects are of larger variety than those which 
prompted her earlier productions ; some of them are of a reli- 
gious cast, others refer to political matters. One of them, 
which appears among the “ Improvisations,” is an energetic 
protest against erecting a new amphitheatre for bull-fights. 
The spirit of all her poetry is humane and friendly to the best 
interests of mankind. 

Her writings in prose must not be overlooked. Among them 
is a novel entitled Sigea , founded on the adventures of Ca- 
moens ; another entitled Jarilla , a beautiful story, full of pic- 
tures of rural life in Estrcmadura, which deserves, if it could 
find a competent translator, to be transferred to our language. 
Besides these there are two other novels from her pen, Paquita 
and La Luz del Tejo. A few years since appeared, in a Madrid 
periodical, the Semanario , a series of letters written by her, 
giving an account of the impressions received in a journey 
from the Tagus to the Ehine, including a visit to England. 
Among the subjects on which she has written, is the idea, still 
warmly cherished in Spain, of uniting the entire peninsula 
under one government. In an ably-conducted journal of 
Madrid, she has given accounts of the poetesses of Spain, her 
contemporaries, with extracts from their writings, and a kindly 
estimate of their respective merits. 

Her biographer speaks of her activity and efficiency in char- 
itable enterprises, her interest in the cause of education, hez 
visits to the primary schools of Madrid, encouraging and 
rewarding the pupils, and her patronage of the escuela de 

f mrrulos, or infant school, at Badajoz, established by a society 
n that city, with the design of improving the education of the 
laboring class. 

It must have been not long after the publication of her 
poems, in 1852, that Carolina Coronado became the wife of an 
American gentleman, Mr. Horatio J. Perry, at one time our 
Secretary of Legation at the Court of Madrid, afterward our 
Charge, d' Affaires, and now, in 1863, again Secretary of Lega- 
35 


410 


NOTES. 


tien. Amidst the duties of a wife and mother, which sho 
fulfils with exemplary fidelity and grace, she has not either 
forgotten or forsaken the literary pursuits which have given 
her so high a reputation. 


Page 294. 

THE RUINS OF ITALIC A. 

The poerns of the Spanish author, Francisco de Rioja, who 
lived in the first half of the seventeenth century, are few in 
number, but much esteemed. His ode on the Ruins of Italics 
is one of the most admired of these, but in the only collection 
of his poems which I have seen, it is said that the concluding 
stanza, in the original copy, was deemed so little worthy of the 
rest that it was purposely omitted in the publication. Italica 
was a city founded by the Romans in the South of Spain, the 
remains of which are still an object of interest. 

Page 30T. 

SELLA. 

Sella is the name given by the Yulgate to one of the wives 
of Lamech, mentioned in the fourth chapter of the Book of 
Genesis, and called Zillah in the common English version of 
the Bible. 


Page 321. 

HOMER'S ODY88EY, BOOK V., TRANSLATED. 

It may be esteemed presumptuous in the author of this vol- 
ume to attempt a translation of any part of Homer in blank 
verse after that of Cowper. It has always seemed to him, 
however, that Cowper’s version had very great defects. The 
style of Homer is simple, and he has been praised for fire and 
rapidity of narrative. Does anybody find these qualities in 
Cowper’s Homer? If Cowper had rendered him into such 
English as he employed in his “ Task,” there would be no 
reason to complain ; but in translating Homer he seems to 
have thought it necessary to use a different style from that of 
his original works. Almost every sentence is stiffened by 
some clumsy inversion ; stately phrases are used when simpler 
ones were at hand, and would have rendered the meaning of 
the original better. The entire version has the appearance of 
being hammered out with great labor, and as a whole it is cold 
and constrained; scarce anything seems spontaneous; it is 
only now and then that the translator has caught the fervor of 
nis author. Homer, of course, wrote in idiomatic Greek, and, 
n order to produce either a true copy of the original, or an 


NOTES, 


411 


agreeable poem, should have been translated into idiomatic) 
English. 

I am almost ashamed, after this censure of an author, whom, 
in the main, I admire so much as I do Cowper, to refer to my 
own translation of the Fifth Book of the Odyssey. I desire 
barely to say that I have endeavored to give the verses of the 
old Greek poet at least a simpler presentation in English, and 
one more conformable to the genius of our language. 


Page 35(5. 

The mock-grape' s l>lood-redi banner , etc. 

Ampelopis , mock -grape. I have here literally translated the 
botanical name of the Virginia creeper — an appellation too cum- 
brous for verse. 


Page 362. 

A BRIGHTER DAT. 

This poem was written shortly after the author's return from 
a visit to Spain, and more than a twelvemonth before the over- 
throw of the tyrannical government of Queen Isabella and tho 
expulsion of the Bourbons. It is not “from tne Spanish” in 
the ordinary sense of the phrase, but is an attempt to put into a 
poetic form sentiments and hopes which the author frequently 
heard, during his visit to Spain, from the lips of the natives. 
We are yet to see whether these expectations of an enlightened 
government and national liberty are to become a reality unde; 
the new order of things. 


THK END. 









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